I watched her little naked body move to scoop up her uniform, shoes, and underwear. And with a cute little smile and a wave, she went out the hall door, closing it behind. She was such a charmer I wanted to step over and peek out the door to watch her spunky bottom twitch down the hall, but I controlled myself and tended to toiletries: brushing, makeup, etcetera.
ONE
Some friends have advised me that if I were to jot down just a few of the adventures of my life I might have the makings of a bestseller.
The problem is, which adventures to write about, where to begin, where to end. I still haven't quite decided, even now as I begin to write this. Perhaps I should have prepared some sort of structure to follow, but I haven't. If this narrative begins at random and ends abruptly, my only excuse is that, well, so does life, and a little glimpse of life, my life, is what I'm after here. Say, about two weeks, a month or so back. I started off with a session with my shrink. We argued. He felt I wasn't being cooperative. We were trying to find the cause of my nymphomania through an analysis of my dreams. As if the factors leading to my lifestyle were not apparent. My sexual appetites are clearly the result of my puritanical upbringing. My parents were fanatical missionaries, eaten by inebriated Solomon Island savages in 1953.
They left me at a tender age, to be brought up in a convent, St. Joan's in New Jersey. The memory is odious, a memory of strict and pointless abstinence and denial, of inhuman sacrifice to the great unknown.
From there it was to a sternly-run women's college, where I received a degree in teaching. As prearranged, I took a position at an exclusive girls' prep school, and taught there for a year, completely cut off from even the hint of male society. I was, and am, a tall, fairly voluptuous redhead, and was quite, quite wasted there.
During this period, I made vague attempts at masturbation, with highly unsatisfying results due to the minimal sophistication of my fantasies.
Then, on a certain week-end towards the end of that first teaching year, I suffered a flat tire on a rural road. A truck stopped. A burly, hairy driver got out and approached to see "What the trouble was", a symbolic phrase it would become in my case.
The road was clear, the woods were near, and I was too lovely and innocent to pass up. He raped me, mercilessly, powerfully ... beautifully.
My surface reaction, of course, was horror and revulsion. But afterward, in the solitude of my locked car, I could admit to myself my true feelings. What wonders, sublime pleasures that stiff, probing, pushing implement had brought me. It was the key, indeed, to unlocking the pent-up feelings, emotions, urges I had unconsciously, unknowingly pushed back to the recesses of my soul, locked away by a lifetime of repression.
And as I sat there in the car, reliving the experience, a thrilling phenomenon occurred ... I perceived a certain wetness between my legs, and that sensitive band of flesh I knew to be my clitoris was hardening. I exposed my pussy, and spread it out beneath my dreamy gaze.
The image of the truck driver's huge prick grew in my mind, and I saw that as the mental image became more distinct and vivid it had a direct and deliriously pleasant effect on my moistening pussy. I stroked myself, and fingered the erect clit and the wet lips, and the bush of red, red hairs-and it worked. I was able to come close to recreating the sublimity of the rape ...
It was there and then, masturbating in the car, that I made my decision, the unspoken vow, to devote forever after as much time as possible to the pleasures of my cunt.
At the close of the school year, I went out into the world, spending the summer and three months beyond in pursuit of sheer sexual adventure. At the end of that time, now a worldly adventuress, I decided to combine my vocation with my obsession, and apply for the opening I discovered at a certain Caveret School for Boys, teaching English Literature.
Mr. Hod, the Headmaster, previous to my appointment, had timidly tended to hire males, or decrepit female bags, only, for his conservative seven-piece faculty. But the situation was desperate, it being mid-semester, and old Mr. Borden, the former Lit man, dead and buried, and the students, meanwhile, going to seed with Borden's requisite courses unsupervised.
So I was taken on, much to the wide-eyed drooling amazement of Caveret's two-hundred boys, ranging in age from thirteen to eighteen.
My secret plan, of course, was to fuck every one of them. But even the teaching itself was a source of constant erotic enjoyment. I would, for example, treat the class to supposedly-unconscious unpantied leg spreads, and let them see beneath my skirt the red of my bristly pussy hair. That and a few other classroom tricks got so exciting, that after every couple of hour-long sessions I would have to slip out to the ladies' room, and jerk off a sopping-wet pussy.
All this fun, alas, came to an abrupt end with the notorious "tutoring incident". In my private office, I was undressed and sitting on the face of a young pupil named Harold Prufrock, teaching him how to eat me out. I was squatted down over him, with my hands under my ass-cheeks, spreading them apart, when we were suddenly visited by Miss Baldwin, the Headmaster's ancient secretary. Her berserk outrage ended my teaching career.
I stumbled into journalistic work from there, and in that guise met my husband. Following this came divorce, and my current career in movies.
Ah, but I perhaps have digressed too far afield. All these personal incidents and we have yet to be properly introduced. And, too, it is not my past but a certain two week period I believe I have mentioned as the subject for discussion.
At any rate, I am Helen Brady, the Brady part being a gift from my ex-husband. Personally speaking, I am five foot eight, have red hair, green eyes, and a proverbial strawberry birthmark, just a little one, low on the left side of my fanny. My measurements are, at last check, 40-25-38-agreeable to most men I meet, and I do meet many.
I live in the little but exciting town of Hollywood, California, writing screenplays from time to time and getting paid pretty damn well for it. A film I scripted was just coming out that Wednesday night, and the publicists got me booked to appear on an afternoon talk show, to "plug the pic" as they put it.
Well, I did have the psychiatrist's appointment to attend to, leaving me with about an hour afterwards to get to the television studio on time. But then I had this upsetting scene with the shrink, and felt in general a bit edgy and anxious about the television gig, as I came out of the Webley Building and crossed the street to my car. He, of course, asked questions this time about my life, sex-wise. And I, of course, supplied the most recent graphic details.
"Lord," he had said, after a half dozen encounters were described, "there it is. I couldn't have predicted your illness, of course, from the first two sessions which portended only normalcy and adjustment."
Anyway, we were soon arguing. And now here I was in my car, feeling a need to release a little tension before going "on the air". I decided the best bet was to stop off at "Mr. Paul's" for a quick athletic fuck.
The road into Hollywood was not unduly crowded. It was bright and cloudless out, and I buzzed right along. I parked the car in a lot on Vine Street, and walked two blocks up to my destination.
"Mr. Paul's Beauty Lounge" was ostensibly a massage parlor for women, and you could certainly get a massage there, a very good one, or a mud facial, or a thigh waxing, or any of that sort of shit fading beauties swear by.
More unique, though, was a well set up stud service on the third floor, very exclusive and high priced.
The management was careful in its choice of members, due of course, to the highly precarious nature of the business. One infiltration, one misplaced rumor, one unsatisfied customer and the highly profitable "lounge" would be shut down in perpetuity. Forty years they had been in business, though, since Hollywood's grand golden days, and seemed a pretty safe bet for another forty.
The clientele of regulars, aside from a few rich businessmen's spouses, consisted of celebrated (or once celebrated) female names in the movie pantheon. I was introduced to "Mr. Paul's" three years ago by a lady director (once a star herself) for whom I was writing a script (a television movie). For her, a divorced woman, vital and hard working, there was nothing sordid about it. The Lounge's studs provided a dependable and pleasurable way to release tension without further emotional commitment. So it was with me now.
The lobby is tender pink, softly lit, with long ornate black couches, and a black reception desk, behind which a young blonde girl sits in a neatly starched white uniform.
"Hello, may I help you," the receptionist smiled at me as I came in. There were two other women there, sitting on the couches, reading magazines. They were about my age (that is, about thirty next October).
"Yes. Miss Brady," I answered.
"Oh yes, hello Miss Brady. Did you have an appointment?"
"No, I don't. I wanted to see if you could fit me in with Mr. Worthy."
She gave a silent nod at this, the code name, and turned open a file book to check that my name appeared on the list.
"Of course," she said in a moment. "You take the elevator at the end of the hall."
"Yes, I know," I said. "Thank you."
On the third floor was a corridor. Two doors with frosted glass windows were at either end, the elevator facing midway between them. A visitor would enter the door on the right and exit from the left, all very discreet and inconspicuous. I pushed the buzzer on the correct door, the lock released, and I went in.
Another receptionist, a young man with glasses, was inside. He smiled at me.
"It's ... Miss Brady, isn't it?"
"Yes, hello."
"And how have you been? I don't think we've seen you around here for a month or so."
"About that. Pretty busy, you know. Is anyone available?"
"Of course. Someone in particular you wanted?"
"Not really. Has anyone new joined the firm?"
"Ah ... yes, a very nice chap. I'll see if he's free. Will it be cash or charge?"
"Charge," I said, and got my Diner's Club out of my purse.
"All right, thank you. I'll just be a minute. Will you have a seat."
I lowered myself onto a blue loveseat. He played with my charge plate, handed it back to me, and went through the door behind him. He came back in a moment, and said: "All right, Miss Brady, you may go in now."
"Thanks," I said, and went through the door that opened into a hallway with three bedrooms on each side.
Beyond the door stood a tall, muscular blonde boy of about twenty. He was dressed simply enough in very tight violet briefs and sandals. He said: "Hello, I'm Jim."
"Hi," I said.
He kissed me softly on the lips. Then he raised his right arm for me to link mine under it, and he led me down the hall to room number six.
Inside was a bedroom identical (I knew from experience) to the other five: big four-poster bed, a dressing table, sky blue wallpaper with Renaissance nudes scampering, and a diaphanous blue curtain that floated before the tinted window, stirring gently to the rhythms of the purring air conditioner.
I put my purse on the dresser and unbuttoned my jacket. He came up behind, kissed me on the neck, and cupped my breasts in his hands. He slipped my jacket off, and got my blouse up over my head and off. I wasn't wearing a bra, and my nipples were already sticking out saucily. Jim sensually circled the wide roseate of my left huge tit with the sharp nail of his index finger. He came before me, and delicately took a nipple in his mouth and played with it ever so softly with his tongue. He kissed the soft flesh of the tits, and my neck, and then he kissed me long and hard on the mouth.
He undid the clasp on my pants and slid them down to my ankles. We stood there facing each other. I reached out tentatively, and felt his cock from outside the briefs. It stirred to my touch, and stiffened slightly.
I stepped out of the slacks, and Jim slipped off his sandals.
"Do you want to take these off me?" he said, hooking a thumb at the waist of his violet panties.
I smiled an affirmation, and put my hands under the waistband and inched the tight nylon down. I uncovered his very light pubic hairs and let my fingers trail through them as I pulled the briefs off his restless prick one inch at a time, till it was all out, staring at me. Lusciously half erect, the cock was already a good nine inches. The "Mr. Paul" organization certainly knew how to pick them.
I touched his cock, only slightly, at the head. And then taking a handful of it, I squeezed. It flexed beneath my grip and grew another two inches.
"Very nice," I murmured.
When I had peeled off my panty girdle, he embraced me, letting the stiff cock push up on me so that the sensitive underflesh touched low on my stomach and his balls pushed into my pussy hair.
Then he lifted me up, like some gallant knight, and dropped me gently on the bed. He got on the bed below me, and spread open my legs. He kissed along the inside of my thighs, and finally dropped his face below the red curls and slurped his tongue into my oozing cunt. He licked and rolled my clit, and burrowed his tongue deep inside me. I gripped him by the ears, and held him tight between my legs. I shuddered with pleasure. His tongue didn't cease.. .he licked even more dutifully, wildly pushing his tongue up at my clit. I straddled him, my legs locked around his head, and lowered back onto my elbows, breathless ...
He scurried up over me then, and I grabbed hold of his prick. I held it in my fist an inch or two from the base and pulled the skin back so that it was extended fully, pointing stiff just above my humming, drooling twat.
A gallant knight, I thought of him again, with his thirteen inch lance pointed bravely out before him. The joust has begun. He gallops towards the opponent, and in the lance stabs, into the hot, wet, pink flesh. He pushes the thirteen inches in slowly, as I bite my lip and am already coming. In he pushes.. .I grasp his hot balls. In he thrusts ... and I spread my legs further to accommodate the immensity of this young man's weapon. He drives it to the hilt. And the squoosh, not of blood bursting out but my own sweet cunt juices as he drives this great pecker in and out, driving me mad, to the heights of pleasure ... Faster he goes. Faster. His cock is soaked with come just as the walls of my cunt. The slurping liquid noises are louder now, even as loud as my own violent moans. I dig my nails into his back. I am reaching the peak ... and he knows, this genius does, and he moves his strokes faster and shoots his quart of jism up through my system just at the moment I too am coming. It lasts like an eon, this moment, and I feel as if I'm floating somewhere far, far away ... .
* * *
A kind of sweet, clean air stayed in my head and body as I walked to the television studio. I was rather late, it being five minutes past air time when I got there. I was quickly made up and ushered into the "green room". It was a low-ceilinged room with a dozen soft chairs, two coffee-tables, and a black-and-white monitor which our host, Jack Davis, was now occupying, singing (rather badly) a Cole Porter standard. My usher, a young man, titularly "Talent Coordinator", introduced me briskly to the other occupants, seven of them, though only three were destined for on-stage appearances.
We were gathered, I should mention, specifically as representatives on the topic "Movies, Today and Tomorrow," though this thematic title more or less translated as free publicity for some about-to-be-released productions.
I was my studio's third choice as emissary, after the director and stars declined or were unavailable that afternoon. The others for the panel discussion were: A one-time superstar of the thirties and forties, with clips from a compilation film his old studio was bringing out (which included his dulcet-toned narration); a very sexy young black girl, a pop singer making her acting debut in a blood and thunder epic titled "Hot Night in Harlem;" and thirdly, Mason Windell, hot-shot highbrow New York film critic, pushing a new book of his collected pieces.
Mr. Windell was an unexpected surprise. I had met him the September before at the New York Film Festival, and we had a very short affair (more a "one-night", or really, to fully pursue the mot juste, an extended fuck session). He was forty or so, neither the handsomest nor most athletic of men, but his was a fairly intellectual mind, witty, urbane, etcetera, qualities always with some appeal to a young lady.
"Helen, Helen, dearest," he said, with a trace of put-on. We kissed and sat down together. "Good to see you again. And how has the land of the Philistines been biding on your sensitive soul?"
"Oh, so-so," I answered. "Making me rich, mostly."
"Yes, I can imagine. Their money for your soul, I expect. You're looking very good. You've cut your hair I see. How could you? Those long, dazzling red Rita Hayworth tresses!"
"You don't like it this way?"
"Oh, of course. Lovely, just, now it's short. Well, not too short, I guess. And it's still dazzling red. Let me get you a glass of this mediocre champagne they're pushing. One sec-"
There were champagne cocktails and ginger ale on trays on the nearby coffee table. He brought over two of the former.
The Coordinator returned, and removed the former-superstar fellow, who had been chatting quietly with his wife. Seated behind us, the black singer was more on the raucous side, with her retinue of three, her agent presumably, and assorted boyfriends, all three dressed like neighborhood pimps.
"So, Helen, have you thought of me at all in these, um, eight months since September?"
"Oh ... once or twice."
"Have you? I'm glad. I've certainly given you the passing thought. More than once or twice, you beautiful-"
"Mm," I mumbled, preening.
"-Hack."
I smiled, and wagged a finger. "Oh, no professional jealousy now, please."
"Jealousy? Ha! Apathy."
"Frustrated writers, you're all the same."
"Hardly frustrated, madam. My critical writing is a noble and intellectual pursuit. A pursuit of the unanswerable questions on life and art."
"Yours is a case of shooting the shit, on paper."
"Oh Miss Brady, your vocabulary is like that of a woman of the streets."
"You didn't think that resemblance so bad," I rejoined, "when I was sucking on that skinny prick of yours."
"Hold," he said, "I must correct you there: no crass prostitute could fellatiate with such inspiration as you did that night."
"Thank you, sir," I said laughing, and moving my chair closer to him. I subtly moved a hand over the crotch of his dark suit pants. Feeling out the line of his prick shaft, I squeezed at it, and jerked it up and back. It stiffened in my hand to a solid bulge.
"Aha!" I jocularly said. I squeezed some more and the bulge rose and hardened even more.
"Good God," he said, looking down at his erection. "And I'm appearing on television in a few minutes. This will be a first.. .I only hope he doesn't have me standing up too long."
I pushed the stiff cock upwards, so that it stuck out quite comically under the trousers.
"Christ, Helen," he said, in mock annoyance, crossing his legs, "you're impossible!"
"Okay stuffed shirt, be that way," I said, and let my hand trail from his cock to between my legs. Casually I stroked up my pussy. He saw me rubbing off, and turned snootily the other way, to sip his champagne. Then someone touched my shoulder. I started in surprise.
"Hey mama, can I help you out there?"
It was one of the girl singer's boyfriends. They had been seated around the coffee table six feet behind us. Now he was grinning. His hand trailed down lightly from my shoulder to my breast.
I smiled up at him, embarrassed but excited by his catching me in the lewd action. "No, I'll make out, thanks," I managed to say.
"Well," he said, "just give a call if you're needing something, you dig?"
"Sure thing."
He sat back with his group, and they laughed as he repeated the dialogue.
I turned to Mason. He was grimacing at me, and signifying his embarrassment. Then the Talent Coordinator appeared to tell Sexy Singer it was show time. She got up to go, and there was a round of "Okay baby" and "Give it to 'em" and kisses and ass pats from the male trio.
On the monitor they were returning from a commercial break, mercifully blanked out on our screen, and our host Jack Davis was now introducing the black chick. Out she came, all spunky sass. She sang, then sat down to discuss her film debut.
"I've seen this film they're discussing," Mason said a little later, nodding up at the monitor wherein the girl was laying on the plug.
"Bad?" I queried.
"It sucks."
"What about her?"
"The same. Great tits, though. Very sexy bathtub scene." He looked over his shoulder to note whether he had offended the girl's three man retinue, but they were too preoccupied to hear him, animatedly watching the monitor and commenting to each other on their star's conversational performance. "Yeah," Mason continued, turning back, "I'll say that much. I say it in my review: art it isn't, but if you're interested in seeing black pussy-"
"You wrote that in your review?"
"Well, the words were rather more convoluted."
"Mm ... Have you seen my new offering yet?"
"Oh, this new version of 'Pride and Prejudice' isn't it?"
"Yeah. With music."
"No, not yet. There's been no press showing. Not in New York anyway."
"Ah. So you may end up having to pay at the box office like the mere mortals. The big premiere's tonight. Old style: arc lights, red carpets, the whole bit. Maybe you want to come along."
"Can't. Have to fly to Chicago. More book plugging."
"When do you leave?"
"Tonight."
"So, we can't get together this time, huh?" I said, reaching over to his crotch again.
"Goodbye all." It was the superstar's wife. On the monitor, he was being segued off the show before the next break, and his wife, sitting over in the corner, was exiting now to meet him.
The Talent Coordinator passed her at the door, and called in, "Mr. Windell? Yes. You're on next, please."
"Okay," he said. "Here I go."
I patted him on the ass as he passed me.
In another minute he was being seated on the panel. Just as he was responding to the first question from Mr. Davis, I, in the green room, felt a definite tap on my shoulder, similar to one experienced earlier, and I turned from the monitor to see the same black stud who had offered his services a few minutes before. He was wearing black, wraparound sunglasses now.
"Hey there, pretty mama, I did see you rubbing that pussy of yours,-huh? You all wet, baby?" He looked back at his companions, who were watching us with interest, and chuckling.
"I'm sure you'd be fun," I said wistfully, "But as you can see, I've got to go on television in just a few minutes."
The three studs exchanged glances, and Sunglasses gave a nod to one of them. He went out of the room, closing the door behind him.
I nervously thought to myself: Why the fuck did I have to be the last one to go on the show?!
"Ohh, come on, mama, be cool, be cool. You got time."
I answered: "Oh, man, don't get me all nervous now. I've got to go out and be cute in front of millions of people."
"Shee-it. That's nothin', " Sunglasses said. "Baby, I'll make you feel real good."
"Some other time maybe," I suggested, standing up and starting towards the door.
The third black man, tall and gaunt with a goatee, stepped over in front of the same door, blocking my only way out. He grinned broadly.
"Hey bay-bee, where you goin'? " he said, low and slow. His left hand moved to his pants, and he held his crotch suddenly in a bunch. I backed up from him, back to the center of the room.
"Come on, chick," Sunglasses, behind me, said. "You can make it. Get some of this black cock, baby. You ever tried it?"
I turned to face him. "Sure, sure," I quickly conceded, not wishing to offend (and, in fact, I had tried it).
"You dig it mama?" the Goatee asked urgently. "Sure man, real good cock," I answered over my shoulder.
"Oh, baby," he sighed.
Sunglasses shuffled a foot closer before me. He toured his eyes up and down my body. "I bet right now," he said in a whisper "with all this big, black cock around you, you got a real dripping wet pus-pus ... Hm?"
"We gonna check her out, William?"
"Yeah, man ... let's see if you got a wet old pussy, baby!"
"Come on, fella," I said, pushing back from his touch. "They'll be coming for me in a minute, and you'll have some trouble on your hands."
"It's cool, it's cool," he said.
I backed up into the Goatee, and he grabbed my arms and pinned them behind me.
"Don't shout, baby," he whispered in my ear.
Sunglasses stepped up, and rubbed a hand down my front. One hand he stuck crudely between my legs, and with the other he unbuttoned me. With both hands he tugged down my pants and rolled down my panty girdle. My crotch was exposed before him now, and my rosebush shined at him, and he let out an exhaling whistle.
The dude holding my arms behind me, strained his head over my shoulder to get a clearer look at my pussy.
The Sunglasses wedged his big black hand between my clenching thighs, and slid it up to my fur. He plucked and rubbed at the curly red hairs. Then with his two hands, he pried open my legs, and stuck three fingers of his left hand into my cunt.
"Shit, mama," he exclaimed, "your fuckin' pussy's soaking wet!"
Damn right. I was now so inwardly excited I was coming. Don't let anyone tell you different, rape is a woman's favorite fantasy. Oh yes.
While Sunglasses fingered my cunt, the Goatee got into the act, too. He put one muscular forearm around my neck, and was thus able to hold me and still leave one hand free to explore down between my ass-cheeks. He moved his long fingers into the moist crevice, and stiffly pushed the middle one at my ass-hole. He jerked it into the tender, pink hole a good inch, and then played it slowly back and forth.
In front, Sunglasses unzipped his pants now. "You want to take it out yourself?" he said, in a serious voice.
I made a show of trying to shake away. Goatee held me tighter.
Sunglasses unleashed his thick, black cock, and held it at me, his fist around it at the base. It was quite stiff.
Just then the door started to open, and banged shut. It opened again, and banged shut. Someone was trying to get in, to open it, and was being stopped. So, that was what the third man did when he left the room, stood guard duty.
"Stop this! Open this door!" a voice growled. It was the Talent Coordinator.
Goatee plucked his finger out of my shithole. "Get it on, man," he urged. "This chick's gotta be on tv, like now-time."
"Yeah, brother, I'll do it," Sunglasses said, arching down to fit his swollen cock into me. The Goatee held me just under the ass-cheeks, and lifted me up, then down, onto a perfect landing on his partner's prick.
As the one fucking me flexed his pelvis in and out, the one behind lifted me forward under the ass, rhythmically up and down.
There were a few more bangs over at the door. And then we heard the frantic young man shout: "Guard! Guard, quick!"
I wrapped my legs tight around my rapist's waist. Behind me, Goatee stopped lifting, and reinserted his finger between my spread cheeks and up my ass.
It was an awkward set-up all around. In short order, though, Sunglasses came, as did I. And the beautiful black dude behind me, just as I was coming, slowly withdrew his finger from my ass-hole. It was very nice indeed.
Now there was a commotion and scuffling at the door.
"Split-time, man," the Goatee said.
Sunglasses wiped his sticky cock on my thigh, zipped up, and then the two of them ran to the door, opened it, and pushed through.
"Stop! Stop you!" someone voiced, but to no avail. The culprits were gone.
The Talent Coordinator ran in, followed by an elderly guard in gray uniform.
"What?! What?! "
I had melted to the floor, cupping my humming cunt in my hands.
"God! Gracious, what have you been up to in here?! Miss Brady! My God!" He skipped circles around me, shouting hysterically, and pointing an accusing finger.
The old guard stood in the doorway, staring silently, gaping at my disheveled nudity.
I moved up onto my knees, fairly breathless.
The Coordinator stepped next to me, and with a hand under my shoulder helped me to my feet. But otherwise, he was not being very diplomatic courtesy-wise with a guest, after all.
"You're incredible!" he said with pique, as he scooped my girdle up for me. "This is quite out of order!"
I scurried into the undergarment, and shook out my pants he was handing me.
"Look how you've fucked up! Look, look!" he hollered plaintively, pointing wildly up at the television monitor. "You're on! You're on!"
Jack Davis had called my name out to the millions of viewers, and the band was playing an intro ... nothing. I pulled on my pants, one eye on the monitor. Another music intro ... I buttoned my blouse. Up on the monitor, the panel looked puzzled. The host looked anxious. The band looked pissed off ... but what can a girl do?
TWO
I finally got on, with about six minutes left of air time. There was a bit of good-natured banter over my tardiness, "stuck in the bathroom" as it was decided. I plugged the picture, laughed a lot, said I was nervous. The host thanked us all for coming, said "Goodbye till next time!, " and the band vamped over the credit-roll. The audience kept up a grotesquely extended round of applause (not from joy but in obeisance to a neon sign that flashed the order at them). We on the panel sat there silently, till our mikes were turned off. Then Jack Davis shook all our hands and said: "Great show.
Thanks again ... You can go off this way."
Pointing us towards the wings, stage left. Then he moved forward to thank the audience.
Mason Windell took my arm and whispered at me: "What the hell happened to you back there?"
"I was raped by a spade," I announced casually, getting out of his grip to catch up to the singer. "Miss Wayne," I said.
She stopped and looked back. "Yeah, baby?"
"I wanted you to tell your friend with the beard something for me. Tell him: keep practicing; someday he'll know how to do it."
She grimaced at me, puzzled, then shrugged. "Okay, baby."
"And I wondered, dear, do they all ball you? All three of them?"
"Woo, what you pullin' on me, sister?" she grinned.
"Nothing much. I just dig that cockflesh you're handling. If you ever need an extra pussy sometime, my number's in the book."
She laughed. "Well, I don't know where you're comin' from, but I'll bear it in mind. Ciao, honey."
"See you." I went over to Mason, standing nearby.
"What was that all about?"
"What?" I said coyly.
"You and the Afro pus."
"Oh, nothing. A little orgy I've been dreaming up."
"What, making it with chicks now?"
"As a matter-of-fact, I often have, but skip it."
"And what was this 'raped by a spade' business? What's the joke?"
"No joke. After you left, those spade cats in there got a little hot. Exposed my fat twat and stuck a big black pole up it."
"You're kidding!" he exclaimed.
"No. And the other one had a finger bigger than your cock, and he kept sticking it up my red, puckered ass-hole."
"So they raped you in the green-room?"
"Well, it may have started out as rape, but I kind of dug it too much to call it that."
"God, God, you're impossible. Look! Look at what you've done to me again." We looked down at his crotch, which was bulging. "All that talk of'big twat,' 'black pole.' I'm stiff again. 'Finger in your ass-hole.' You're putting me on, right?"
"Think what you will," I drawled, and patted his erection. "See you." And I started off.
"Hey Helen, hold on. You can't leave me like this, with my prick tight."
"Well, you should have more control," I advised.
"With your sex dialogue?"
"Oh, how does it excite you, Mr. Intellectual? I thought you were above that sort of thing. I mean, really. Just because I mention how this big black buck pushed a long finger up my ass-hole. How he spread open my fanny and let that cold air at my little red hairs. You know how my cunt hair grows all the way to my red anus, and then grows in a circle around it. You should know, you had your face down there long enough, if you recall. Then this other dude with a twelve inch pork jammed the whole thing right into my perfumed twat. Can you imagine?"
"Oh God," Mason whimpered, and his cock was really steaming beneath his trousers, making the front of them rise and squirm as if he had stuck a live rabbit in there.
"My, my, look at you," I teased. "like a fourteen-year-old with his first glimpse of pussy."
"Cockteaser."
"Oh, pshaw now Mason. No one can accuse me of that."
"Well, in any case," he said, wearily, "you'll excuse me, will you, I've got to go masturbate."
"Where are you going to go?" I asked, continuing the put-on.
"Oh, the little boys' room, I suppose."
"Okay. I'll go along with you. Maybe I can help out. You know: give you a hand."
"Ha!"
So we continued on backstage. There was a good deal of scurrying about, no one paying any attention to us. We came to the lavatories. I crossed him and opened the door marked "Men." He stopped.
"You're serious?" he asked, chuckling. "Sure. Come on."
He held the door and came in behind me. A small john with three urinals, two stalls, and two sinks.
"Come on, let's go," I said. "Haven't got all day, you know."
"This is crazy," he said.
"Shut up and get your cock out."
"Someone may come in, Helen," he pleaded, half seriously.
"Look, Mason, you've been complaining all day about some out-of-control hard-on. Now either you want me to snap your dork or you don't. Which is it?"
"Oh Lord," he said, unzipping.
I stuck my hand in his fly and fished the stiff prick out, bending it, with difficulty, to fit it through the opening. I jerked it a couple of times. "Sit up on the sink," I told him.
"Yee Gods," he said, sitting up there, his dickie wagging stiff out of his pants. "I'm going to get my pants wet."
"I'll shoot the cum carefully."
"No, I mean there's drops of water in the sink here. It'll look like I pissed in my pants."
"Sit still." I jerked the reedy cock up and down, raising the foreskin up nearly over the head and down again. Up and down, gradually speeding the action. Sperm swelled out of the head and dripped down over my fist.
"Oh," he groaned, "faster. Yes, faster."
I accelerated the process. It looked like a piston moving. And before long, Mason was squirming and moaning: "Oh ... pull my cock, Helen, pull it ... mm, mmm, yes ... oh, I'm ... I'm coming now ... yes-"
Behind us, the door suddenly slapped open, and a youth, about seventeen, in a studio page's uniform, stepped into the bathroom and started towards the urinals. He stopped halfway. I had turned in surprise, dropping tbe prick, and Mason shuddered, one moment from coming. The page took a step back, staring at us wide-eyed.
"Excuse me, folks," he said, deeply embarrassed, and backed quickly out of the room.
I turned to Mason. He was looking up at the ceiling, his lips rolled into his mouth. "Blueballs" was written all over his face.
"Oh, Mason honey," I consoled. I lifted his jacket where he had covered the misfired cock. He slid down off the sink.
"The kid scared the shit out of me," I said.
"Surprised the cum into me," he said. "Let's get out of here."
"Here, let me see the problem. We'll get it up again." I touched it gently with my tongue. I licked at the sticky layer of juice on it.
"Cut it out," he entreated, "someone'll walk in on us again."
The cock was starting to come to life again.
"Okay, here-" I said to him, leading him by the prick into one of the toilet stalls. "I'll let you stick it in my cunt."
Inside, I took his pants and shorts down, and worked at the pork, getting it up good and taut.
Then I took off my slacks and girdle. I should, perhaps, have left those two items home that day, for all the time I had them on. I should've just come to town in jacket and blouse and below that bare ass and bonny rosebush with a sign taped to the curly hairs "enter here." Anyway, Mason took off his jacket and then we were both down to our shirts, fuck parts exposed: his cock stuck in the air, and my honey-pot hot and humming.
He put the seat down on the toilet. There was no cover; only the horseshoe for shitters. He started to sit down, but I said: "Wait a second. I've got to make pee-pee."
"Brother." He slid around me, his cock brushing against my full bottom. I sat down on the pot and peed, holding on to his prick which got stiffer with the erotic tinkle of my piss hitting water. I pulled off some toilet paper with my free hand and patted my pussy dry. The toilet exploded to my flush, and I stood around to make room for the new occupant. Mason held me for a second and rubbed his wet cock on my bush. He wanted to be good and stiff. Then he sat down.
I turned my back to him and stepped backward, straddling him and the toilet bowl, so that my ass was directly over his fuckpole. I reached down between my legs and took hold of the stiff member. Holding it that way, my forearm pressed into my open cunt and I could feel my own sticky cum juices already quite present.
I wiggled my ass in his face. He leaned forward and kissed my fleshy left cheek. He held both cheeks apart and bent his head down to see.
"Yes, you're right," he said, rubbing his nose in, "I had almost forgotten, myself. Those curly red hairs do go down the sides of your cunt and then right around your big ass-hole. Let's see now if we can get this in."
He worked an index finger into my shithole. As he was pulling it out, I farted. It was easy in that position.
"Cruel, Helen, cruel. But to tell the truth, even your farts seem to smell good. Not quite up to your pussy odor, but still." He was sniffing under my ass, and putting a salivating tongue on my pink hole.
"Smell it, Mason. Put your nose in my shithole.
That's it ... "I flexed my sphincter muscle and it opened to allow his thin nose in an inch of my hole. "Lick it, Mase. Lick the hairs."
"Ohhh, I'm getting a cramp bending my neck. Sit your cunt down while I'm still erect."
"Righty-o."
I reached between my legs again, took the prick below the knob, and guided it between my outer lips. When I had it set right, I eased my ass down, sitting tightly with the pole in straight. I wiggled my round buttocks side to side, causing a wild friction between cock and cunt walls.
"Oh baby. Do it. Keep doing it. Roll, roll."
I started really swaying, that slim straight prick like the axis running through the wheel of my fanny, the nicely ample flesh of my rear laying over onto his thighs. He sat there on the toilet, pants at his ankles like he was taking a shit, but in fact hitting me a rather good fuck.
Mason was in deep pleasureville, but maddeningly so, because my original style of fucking, the sideways swing, kept him just this side of coming; it was just that kind of position. Women take note: your humble narrator suggests this nifty squat next time your pussy's wet and a stiff cock's available. You can literally fuck all day without him shooting his load. But, of course, not all of them can take it. Such was the case with my sensitive intellectual and his skinny prick.
"Stop. Stop. Up and down. Move up and down," he whined. "I've got to come. I've got to come. I'm going crazy. I can't come this way, cunt!"
I stopped swaying and looked at him over my shoulder.
"Come on, Helen," he insisted, "Oh shit, lift your fanny."
I raised my ass off him. He took the pink cheeks in his hands. I rose up on the shaft till just the round knob was still in me. He pressed my ass-cheeks.
"Just there. No higher. Down now."
I slid back down on the penis.
"Mmmmm, up again, up, yes. Down now. Faster."
I sat up, down, up, on his hard cock. The slurping noises resumed loudly.
"FASTER!" he shouted.
I came up on it to the head and down again, letting it plunge up my pussy to the hilt. I enjoyed the feel of this reedy cock. It was a different sensation from the general line of prick I sit on. I like them fat and long, don't get me wrong, and there's nothing like a strong fucker with a thick pecker when a girl's built with as big a cunt as mine. Generally, my queen-sized fuck hole needs a real salami to fill it to satisfaction. But Mason's cock, about eight inches total and no thicker than two fingers, caused unusual sensations, due to all the space left for moving it around inside my cunt.
I could really work off on the head itself, maneuvering so that it wiped along my cunt walls. Indeed, it had all the positive attributes of an agile finger-fucking but with the added pleasure of his hot cum seeping through me, mingling with my own drooling juices.
I speeded up, my big bottom really pounding down on his thighs.
"Mm, mm, mm, fuck me," I could be heard to mumble, as I started to get together for the climax.
The moment he voiced this last there was a repeat of what had happened when I was jerking him off. Someone very noisily entered the bath room. It was as if "Somebody up There" didn't like poor Mason. Not that he was to be stopped this time. But certainly the surprise threw off his rhythm several points. He jarred me off balance on him, and nearly ended up coming on my ass-cheeks. "Fuck!" he screamed painfully, but drove his cock back up my pussy just in time. I drew in a breath and closed my eyes in pleasure at the hot come hissing in my cunt.
As it happened, his cry of "Fuck!" was quite loud arid sufficiently pained to bring the vistor (initially, no doubt, intending only to have a quick piss or shit) rushing towards our toilet stall to help the soul in distress. And us, like two hot ass-holes, too worried about getting laid, forgot to lock the latch on the door. It swung open, nearly smacking me in the face.
"What's wrong?! " our rescuer exclaimed, pushing the door furiously. He stopped short when he saw us, and said: "For Christ's sake."
Dig this: the visitor was none other than our nationally celebrated host from the talk show, Jack Davis. He stepped back in disbelief. His mouth hung open. I stared up at him, my mouth hanging open too, gasping from the fuck. Mason leaned back to stretch his lungs. His back hit the flusher, and like a last, mechanical exclamation mark to this disorienting climax, detonated a resounding roar of water. Why is it, please, that public lavatory toilets are pressurized like H-bombs?
The noise subsided. We sat there on the toilet, with this television star staring at us.
"Hello there," Mason finally said.
"Mason. Helen," he nodded at each of us. "Hotel rooms were all full, I suppose?"
Mason laughed. I exhaled.
"I'm always happy to see new friendships started from my show."
I got to my feet. Mason's cock melted out between my legs with a "schlurp". I turned back and patted him on the head.
"Shame on you," Jack Davis continued. "I thought you artistic types were above this sort of thing. More in favor of the clean, noble outlook. By the way, that's a beautiful red bush you've got there."
"Thank you, sir," I said, curtsying. "And would you like a flower from my garden?"
"I'd love one," he said, stepping closer into the toilet stall.
I rubbed my hand over my muff and took a tightly curled hair between two fingers, plucked it, and extended it to him.
"Lovely," he said, taking the red cunt-hair from me and putting it in his mouth. We all laughed at this. I leaned against the side partition.
"But how can I be satisfied at this? No, never!" he shouted, snickering. He leaned towards me and trailed his hand lightly over my bush. "Oh yes," he whispered, shivering. "A perfect mound, so soft, it holds the hand, nestles around my touch like a warm pillow." He moved a middle finger down to my crack. I parted my thighs slightly, and he slipped the finger in further to touch my clit. It stiffened. He took his hand away and leaned against me, his cock hard under his lime-green trousers.
Mason, still sitting on the toilet, said: "I've got to get up, I'm getting all stiff."
"Me too," Jack said slyly, his erection quite hard against me. "You know-ooh Helen, nice-since my last divorce I haven't had much of this mature cunt. Almost forgot how nice it is."
"If you consider Helen mature, then who, pray tell, do you fuck?" Mason asked the fifty-ish Jack.
"Oh, chickies. I get fixed up with starlets, models. And the chicks on my staff."
"Sounds ideal." Mason was standing up now, beside us in the cramped compartment. An odd place for conversation, but Jack seemed intent.
"Not bad. But look at this," he proposed, nodding at me, and working a hand up under my blouse. "What are you, thirty?"
"Nearly," I answered.
"Yeah. Great. Look at you: full hips, round ass, big hot twat. Mmmmm, big ripe titties." He pushed up under my breasts. "Mm, these knockers are really firm, let's have a look, Helen-" He raised up my blouse and uncovered my, I say unashamedly, terrific tits. "Oh wonderful. Look, Mason feel this boob. Touch this nipple. Tweak it."
"Yes, they're very nice, Jack. What can I say, Helen, you've got great boobs."
"Thank you, Mason."
"And look, Mason, at the red rose around each nipple. As big as coffee saucers. And the nipples must be three inches long."
Jack got his cock out of his pants. It was short and meaty. Stiff. Surprisingly, Mason's cock was also starting to rise. Perhaps Jack's string of compliments were causing Mase to better appreciate what a prize he had on his hands, and should stick a prick at while he had the chance.
Jack pushed his squat dork into my cabbage. They each took one of my tits in their mouths and sucked hard at the straining nipples. They were stuck out hard, as Jack had noted, a good three inches. I reached down for Jack's cock, playing about in my bush, and then grabbed for Mason's. I happily jerked both pricks as they sucked my tits. Jack gave up on my nipple and just leaned back against the partition, letting me jerk him faster and faster. Two cocks in my hands: neither one a perfect specimen, but together exciting my pussy something awful. I was pulling at record speed, the pair of foreskins zooming back and forth over the heads. Then-
You guessed it: a visitor. Mason and I had given up worrying over these intrusions, but not Jack. Television stars have images to uphold. Looking at it from his point of view, there was the possible hint of a bad rep to be derived from being seen by the wrong person, being jerked off by a half-naked redhead in a public men's room. He had, true to tell, let his emotions get the better of him at the sight of my tantalizing tuft, and overrule his good sense as a celebrity with conservative sponsors, and a following of predominantly straight-thinking housewives. It would never do. Not to say, though, that all those housewives didn't in fact fantasize over doing just such a thing with this dubious idol. More than one of those middle-aged mamas, I'm sure, turned off the vacuum cleaner when he came on the set, slipped off their panties, and lay down on the couch with their housecoats raised up, playfully working their fingers through softly boiling pussies, jerking off as they watched his easy-going image in their living room. Well, ladies, here he was, a hand on my pussy, and me snapping his prick just the way you all dreamed of doing.
But then it all changed. Another piss-ridden arrival.
We were standing like so: in the rectangular toilet stall, leaning against the side wall with the two cocks on either side of me, the toilet a step further back. Jack was half against the door, which was opened in a full arc against the partition. Our whole number was such an improvisation that Jack had not taken the preliminary caution of closing the door behind him as he began his advances. And so, not wishing, as I say, to be seen in such a compromising, nay ridiculous, situation, Jack's first move when startled into reality by the creak-swoosh of the heavy bathroom door opening, was to close the swing door of the toilet stall we three were converged in.
"Shit!" Jack whispered, and moved like a streak, rolling back off the door to swing it closed.
The stall was narrow to be sure, and too small for Jack's clumsy choreography. As he rolled backwards, swinging the door before him, he lost his balance and fell past me. My blouse was pushed up on my shoulders, and my huge knockers must have looked like the perfect brace as he started down sideways to his knees. He was too slow in his reach, though, and only caught one of my nipples, pinching right at the tip, pulling for an instant so hard I gave an involuntary reflex chop at him, and he fell forward, roughly hitting his collarbone on the toilet, his head splashing into the bowl. As he fell, awkwardly propelled by my slap, he reached his left arm out wildly to stop himself. What he caught was Mason's spindly leg, just at the kneecap. Due to another strange reflex, the leg collapsed at the touch and Mason fell backward across the toilet, sitting his ass across the flush lever.
The pressurized rains came. The water exploded, emptying from the bowl, a hard spraying all around under the rim, and a hearty refill.
Jack Davis' round, made up, well-coiffed head hung half-consciously in the bowl, buffeted by the waves, his mouth hung open, water flooding in, up his nose. He snorted, retched, groaned. Mason, meanwhile, getting to his feet, slipped back and nearly pierced his balls with the same fateful flusher. I moved to help Jack, but was intercepted.
The visitor, with an anxious "What in the blue perfect hell!" pushed the stall door open, squashing me against the partition.
"Ouch!" I exclaimed as my tits banged near flat up.
I don't know if I've caught the proper rhythm, the precise sudden tempo of this craziness as it happened. It's a little hard, as the amount of separate action was far out of proportion to the time elapsed. It was, in fact, no more than five seconds between the first sign of an intruder and the flushing toilet.
The door swung open tight against me, and a figure moved in. Reunion time. I pushed back against his grip on the door, and saw none other than the aging, gray-haired, gray-uniformed guard, witness earlier to my green-room adventure. He looked down at Jack, on his knees, head in toilet bowl, and at Mason, wincing in pain, holding his naked balls, strangely standing astraddle the plumbing apparatus. Then the guard looked at me, my big boobs popping, sticky rosebush, full pink thighs parted.
"You again!" he screamed, disbelieving. "Well, first shit in the morning!"
"Hello," I said weakly.
For some strange reason he chose then to draw his revolver and point it nervously in our general direction.
"If any of you move, I'll shoot! Good Lord, they must have all escaped from a nut farm."
Jack, in the bowl, emitted a pained gurgle, and followed it with a pained cough, snort and moan. He raised his chin up, from where it had hooked on the rim, and slid off. He fell back against the partition, blue in the face, retching pathetically.
"Ohhh," he groaned, and burped.
"Can't you see he's drowning?! " I told the guard, who was rather more interested in my drool-stained pussy. You'd think he'd have seen enough of it by now. He turned though, and saw who was sitting on the floor.
"Mr., Mr. Davis! What the hell?! "
I stepped over and took Jack's head in my hands.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
He looked up at me, dazedly, and hiccupped. Water flowed out of his mouth and nostrils. Pancake makeup was smeared on his face and dripping from his chin. A real mess.
"Oh boy," Mason said, stepping around the toilet, still holding his balls. "This guy's swallowed a lot of water."
"What have you people been doing to Mr. Davis?" the guard asked indignantly.
"Come on, let's get him out of here," Mason answered, taking Jack under the shoulders. We backed out from the stall.
The guard, who was pretty slow on the uptake, held his pose, and I unwittingly backed up against his lowered pistol, the cold metal sticking between my plump, damp ass-cheeks.
"Hey," I told him, "stop sticking that thing in my keester. I've heard of the gun as a phallic symbol, but this is ridiculous ... well come on, pull out of my ass and move back."
This dirty old man, reacting to everything about six beats slower than normal, looked at me, then down at his gun roughly parting my pink ass-cheeks. As if in some ephemeral dream world, he realized this was a not uninteresting set-up, and he raised the pistol up and to the side so that the cheeks parted and he could clearly see the thick line of hair growing up to my ass-hole.
"Jesus willickers," he muttered quaintly.
I sighed, annoyed, and reached down at the gun and pointed it out.
"Here, have a good look," I said, raising on my toes and spreading my cheeks to show him my pussy and shithole. He gaped. "Okay? Now will you step out of here so we can save this ill man."
"Yeah, uh, sure, sure ... " he said, backing out.
Mason dragged Jack out and laid him straight on the floor. Jack burped and covered his chest with water.
"Boy," said the guard, smelling his pistol for my ass odor while looking down at Jack, "this guy's a real slob, ain't he?"
Mason started to bend over the ailing television star, but winced and stood up again. "My balls," he said. "I've got to put my underpants on for support, my balls are weak after that fall."
Jack burped again. I straddled him. Straightening his arms above him, I pressed in on his stomach and the water rolled out. Jack moaned low. Just coincidentally, my position on him was pretty erogenous: his cock idly touching the strands of my red pussy. I leaned forward again, pressing his abdomen. There was just a dribble now, from the sides of his mouth. He breathed deeply. Slowly, his eyes floated open. He had a dazed look on his face.
Mason and the guard were standing around us. "Hello, Jack."
"Hello there, Mr. Davis," they said in turn.
"Where am I?" Jack asked unsteadily.
"It's apres le deluge," Mason said, wittily.
Jack closed his eyes. He opened them. We were all still there. Then he flexed his eyebrows and looked down at his stomach, to my red pussy straddled just below his own flaccid cock. The sight of my muff, the springy hair spread over his thighs, must have had some magical effect on him, for upon seeing it he recovered immensely. His prick stiffened. I looked at it, surprised but pleased, and took it in my hand. It was pleasant to the touch, lukewarm, sticky, and pliable. I jerked it stiff, then shimmied up on him till I could rub it against my erect clit. I rubbed the prickhead against the sensitive flesh till I was good and wet, and then I raised up my ass and slipped the cock into my honey-pot. It went in smooth, to the hilt. I writhed, driving it around in circles within me. The audience, Mason and the old guard, watched in awe. Pretty soon, we were really cooking. Jack was not fully comprehending the situation, a blank idiot's look on his face, but was submitting without complaint. Well, I was doing all the work, after all, with my ass turning fifty revolutions per minute. His cock started to sperm hot, and my juices were flowing, too. The liquid sounds of fucking filled the air, amplified by the hollow acoustics of the tile and metal bathroom.
"Holy Toledo," the gray guard muttered, "this dame knows how to hump. Yes sir. I could take a crack at her cunt myself."
I turned back and smiled at him. "Come here, pop. You want to get in on the action? Come on. Stick a finger in my ass-hole. Mmmmm." I continued pumping up and down on the stiff fuckpole. "Come on, finger my pink, puckered hole!" I howled, laughing and coming.
The guard stepped towards me. "Goddamn, look at that pussy ride! She really loves it ... "
"Come on, old timer, stick a finger up my shithole! Ugh! Ugh! Mmmmmm!" I was really moving.
"Damn, damn, I think I will. I'll do it!" the man in uniform said, finally holstering his pistol and extending a gnarled limb at me. He creaked, getting down on his knees.
"Do it. Do it," I whimpered.
"Well, just hold your horses, little lady. I'm coming."
"I am, too," Jack said quietly.
"Hold on, hold on," I cautioned him sternly. "Keep it back. Not yet." I slowed my gyrations a notch. Old Timer fixed his wire rimmed glasses and touched my nearest ass-cheek. "In. In, you bastard."
"Okay lady, let me get my bearings." He held the cheek apart with his right hand, and pointed a finger of his left towards the tender orifice. He scratched around.
"Mmmmm, you're tickling me," I said, leaning down on Jack to keep my ass up. "You're tickling me, pop."
"Jesus, it's all wet around there." He was right: sticky juices were overflowing my crotch.
I raised up on the fuck shaft.
"For Christ's sake, let me come," Jim whined.
"Just a second honey, hold on."
The old man got his bony finger in my tight ass. I slid down on it, and the cock too, natch. Okay, I started rolling out of the station.
"Mm, mm, faster," Jack said. "Faster."
"Here we go, here we go, baby."
"You're hurtin' my finger, lady. I mean, your shithole is strong!"
"Shut up, stupid. Twist it. Twist it!" Wow. Cock and finger, in and out, round and round.
"I am coming!" Jack uttered, adamantly.
The finger slowly slid out the shithole, and I thought "That grand guard, at just the right moment!", but he spoiled his reputation by saying, crossly, "My damn finger's getting sore."
Jack came, strong and hot. "Pump it, pump it," he kept saying, till he had got out quite the last drop.
"Good show, Jack," I said, pleased.
We rested.
The guard sat next to us on the floor. Mason was behind, putting his pants on.
"Yeah," the guard began, lulled into nostalgic musing, "I used to stick a pretty good cock when I was younger. Plenty of pussy. Beautiful pussy then, believe you me."
"Is that so," I said, only vaguely listening.
"Oh yeah. I used to work at P-Studios, back in the old days. Those were the good days, boy. You had dozens of these horny young starlets, you know, come to make it big in the movies. Well, jeez, they'd hang around the studio, get in for a casting call, or for extra parts, and I'd get to know a lot of these broads. Yeah, I was a real cunt-chaser then, couldn't get enough of it. Well, folks, it wasn't hard. They were all broke most of 'em, and lonely, kind of depressed 'cause they'd come all the way out here from Kansas or Connecticut, or wherever, Sweden even, to make it big, and then they'd seen how impossible it was.
"I used to pick up different ones every day. I'd take 'em to lunch at the commissary, or on a date that night, and they were really grateful. Oh, sure. Get 'em liquored up, you know. Oh shit, they'd all fuck. No problem. They'd fuck all night; go down on my cock. I'd chew on their pussies. And these were real cutie-pies, beauties every one of them. Perfect tits, round little fannies, and warm, soft, juicy, beautiful, beautiful cunts that you could put your face in and eat for the rest of your life. They smelled sweet, those starlet pussies. They smelled real sweet ... "
"Yeah," Mason agreed, "I don't mind sweet-smelling pussy, myself."
I said: "Glad to hear it."
"I've got to take a piss," was Jack's only comment, lying on his back on the floor. "That's all I came in here for was to take a piss."
THREE
On Wednesday at seven, a black limousine came for me. It took me to the Vantages Theatre in Hollywood, where the world premiere of "Pride and Predjudice: A Musical" was being celebrated. I was going "stag" so to speak. Not that I didn't have a couple of offers, or a few steady boyfriends I could have asked, but there was to be a supposedly "rip-roaring" party afterwards, and I felt I'd come off a bit more available if in attendance unattached.
Anyway, the limo joined a line of its brothers, and one by one they deposited their occupants, upon reaching a red carpet stretched from curb to theatre. To left and right of the carpet were a huge number of interested fans; not an extraordinary lineup, a couple-hundred or so, but satisfactory in these apathetic days. The ceremonies were being covered by a local radio station and by news and magazine photographers. A gossip reporter was doing the broadcast descriptions, and asking an innocuous question or two of each celebrity who passed his podium just outside the lobby.
I was asked (incredibly): "Did you like writing the script?"
My answer: "Yes, thank you."
Final question: "Do you think it's going to be a hit?"
Inspired reply: "I hope so."
"Well, thank you, Helen. You can go in now, where everyone's eagerly waiting to see this great new movie-that was Miss Helen Brady, the noted screenwriter, who had written the script for this film of the year, "Pride and Predjudice: A
Musical" ... now let's see who this is coming towards us from their car ... two of our favorites, Mr. and Mrs.-"
In all due modesty, the picture was a success. Veteran John Crews' direction was subtle and perfect. The performances, particularly Englishman Hume Anderson as Mr. D'Arcy, excellent, very polished, very witty. The original songs, ten of them, were a delight, hummable, danceable, memorable, all qualities rarer and rarer on screen or stage these days. The film was, in externals, certainly a family picture, yet was tartly sophisticated in its humor, just as was Jane Austen's great novel. As to my script-well, I was paid $250,000 for it, so it should have been good.
At the film's conclusion, there was a great round of applause. Then the audience filed out of the theatre to the hum of critical whispers. Someone came up behind me as I was moving along the aisle to the back of the theatre, and pressed my shoulder.
"Helen, love." It was Janet Duprey (stage name), an actress (television mostly), who, through a variety of circumstances not worth going into, I took in for a month, earlier in the year when she had broken up with her boyfriend. I was the first woman she had ever fucked with.
"Hello dear," I said.
"Wonderful picture, Helen."
"Thanks, Janet. How have you been getting on? I was hoping you'd stop off at the house some time when you've got a chance."
She looked deeply into my eyes for a moment, then snapped out of it and nervously looked back over her shoulder.
"Oh, I'll be over, Helen," she said softly. "I promise I will. Have to be getting back now."
"Who are you here with?"
"K.L. Wagner, the producer," the gorgeous Monroe-type said.
I wagged my head disapprovingly. "Didn't I tell you, you didn't have to fuck producers to get parts; that those days are gone."
"Oh, I don't fuck him, he doesn't like to. I just suck him off. Well, bye-"
I stared after her. She joined her date, the estimable Wagner, old and frail. I left the theatre.
My limousine was waiting. I got in and told the driver the address of the party.
* * *
It was not an intimate affair, though all were hand-picked, for their, let us say, non-conservative demeanor. Most of the guests were fairly young and on the wild side. A party for the older hands of Hollywood was, in fact, going on elsewhere in town.
The house, anyway, belonged to the older generation, a huge rambling affair in the Holmby Hills. The owner and host was a young, very successful independent producer named Patrick
Deveraugh (called by all intimates "Dev"). He was living with "Pride and Predjudice" star Julie Lacey, and gave the bash, of course, in her honor. So the two stars of it were there, and me, and the Director of Photography Jean Villon. The other creators of the film were at the other, more staid party in Beverly.
By more staid, I mean, for example, the front door would not be opened by a six-foot stud in the nude, as it was here.
The fellow had a beautiful cock, nine inches or so flaccid. He motioned me in with a smile, and I touched his thick knob as I passed. There was loud rock music blasting out of amplifiers hung high on the walls. I got a drink from a topless waitress with huge tits, and joined the crowd.
"Hello Dev," I said, when the host approached and kissed me on the lips.
"How are you, Helen? Glad you could come. Shoo, that's a very sexy gown you're wearing there."
I agreed with him. It was black knit, and if you had the right curves it just melted around them, not to mention making your fanny look like some work of the Gods. In the front it was cut extremely low leaving my boobs deliciously visible.
"Anything I can get you?" Dev continued. "There's food laid out in the next room. You know everyone, I guess."
"Not the doorman with the big dong."
He chuckled. "He was only topless when he came on."
"Yeah, well. Looks like a good party, huh."
"Oh, it's just starting. Julie's around somewhere. She wants to thank you for writing her such a good part."
"Please, she was great in it."
"Yeah, I agree with you. Okay, so I'll talk to you later. I've got to play host."
"Right, Dev."
I wandered into the den.
"Hello Helen. Come on over." It was another writer friend, Harlan Elsford, and the famed actor Richard Winters. I joined their conversation.
They were discussing the relative merits of American as opposed to European motion pictures. The actor had just returned from making a film with a very prestigious Italian director.
"No difference," Harlan was saying with finality. "Ten years ago, yes, decidedly. But not any more."
A gorgeous chick with great exposed titties came up and offered an open cigar box. We each reached in for what were not cigars, but well rolled joints of Panama Red marijuana. The girl removed a lighter from a slit just above the crotch of her red velour hot pants, and lit us all up.
"Mmmmm, good stuff," Harlan said, letting out his first toke.
The actor, Richard Winters, exhaled wearily. "They had a lot of Lebanese shit going around in Rome. Good stuff that was," he said, looking disdainfully at the present joint.
An hour later, all partygoers, but for one ascetic hipster, had satiated themselves on dope and/or booze. There was a whirlwind atmosphere about, with all drunk, stoned, whacked out, and indulging in curious and monstro whoop-ups, with even the ascetic, for his part, flying on a kundolini yoga setup.
One of the topless hostess' came quickly through the rooms, crying: "Showtime. Showtime. Everyone who wants to see movies head for the screening room."
"What are they showing?" I asked the speedy dear.
"Oh, some very new fuck and suck films," she answered cordially, continuing on her way.
"What do you think?" I said to Richard (we were quite close by then).
"Hm ... if it's not too crowded." The man had a certain quality about him that was absolutely fascinating. It was an aloofness, an alienation from his surroundings, yet not snobbishly so, only wearily aloof, as though he had seen it all. He said several funny things during our conversation, but never once did I see him smile or laugh. Sort of early Buster Keaton deadpan (though he looked physically more like Cary Grant). At any rate, he was absolutely turning me on, without any concerted effort. The grass and booze had me hot and uninhibited.
Guests were being turned away from the screening room when we got there.
"No room left, people," Dev was saying in the doorway. "Listen, why don't some of you go to the pool. They'll turn the heater on. Stanley. Where is he? Tricia, where's Stanley? Tell him to get the pool fixed up."
The stoned-out, child-like group were moving away, now excited by the alternative game offered them. Richard and I pushed through.
"Dev," I said, "Can you fit us in?"
"Sure, honey, come on. Try and find a seat. I didn't want it too crowded, you know."
We went in to the screening room, which was in fact another den, with several stuffed chairs and couches all around in a semicircle. There was much laughter and animated conversation from the occupants, mostly couples, beautiful young people or 40-ish movie star hipsters. The chairs were all taken, so we joined another pair on cushions on the floor just before the semi circle of seats. The other couple down there with us were already at it, kissing, embracing hotly, the girl's hand down the guy's pants, grabbing at his cock.
"Let's roll 'em, P.D.! " someone shouted.
"Here we go, here we go," Dev said, working his way over to beautiful blonde Julie Lacey, legs folded up under her, tugging heavily at a smoking hash pipe. Her eyes, I noticed coming in, were distended extremely.
Joints were passed out, and lit by that splendid cigarette girl with the substantial mammaries. "Pass 'em around, pass 'em around," she said amiably, as the lights went down.
The room went into total darkness, but for a dim glow out from the projection booth. In the dark, a few girlish squeals were heard, and one low moan.
The silver screen, hung on one wall, was lit up with a flow of white leader. Then a title: "Marks for Good Behavior". The sound emerged in fits and starts.
In what apparently was supposed to be a bar, two extremely well-built chickies, one afro-haired black, and one white blonde with a German accent, picked up a tall, thin, very young (sixteen or seventeen) man with long hair.
The black girl says: "Hey, boy, you want to come home with us? We need a good cock to sit on. Our pussies are so wet, and we get tired of sucking each other off, you dig?"
The boy said: "Oh yeah?"
"Have you got a big cock?"
"Yeah, pretty big."
"Big enough for my big black pussy? I need a ten inch cock-a-doodle, at least."
"Und I need a twelve inch cock," her German friend chimed in.
There was then a direct cut to a badly-lit bedroom set. The three characters entered the frame.
"Well, here we are," said the black chick, who seemed to be the only one able to remember her lines. The other two kind of stood around and waited for her to pick up the ball at each interval. She even showed herself to have some acting ability when, in the next minute she furiously lashed into the boy, raving about: "You better have a twelve-inch cock or you gonna be in trouble!"
The girls worked down his pants and took his cock in hand, jerking it taut. The blonde slipped it in her mouth, sucked it a bit, then stuck it in the black chick's mouth. The kid was quite long and thin, a beautiful, young boy's prick. I was instantly pussy-drooling from the sight.
The blonde went off camera for a second, and came back with a ruler. They measured his cock, the blonde holding the ruler up against it. She took the stiff member once more in her mouth and sucked it slowly straight off from base to head. It was really wagging now. Oh, how I wanted that cock in my own mouth, in my hot box. Those lucky cunts!
They measured it again. The blonde shook her head. The spade chick showed more vocal dissatisfaction: "Eleven inches! That's all, is eleven inches! Sheee-it. Hit him, Lena!"
"You don't have twelve inch cock," the German said, hitting his stiff prick with the ruler. "Bad, bad, cock."
"Let's get undressed," the other said, "and teach this dude a lesson."
They quickly stripped for action, each stopping between garments to jerk on the kid's dong so that it was still quite erect when they were ready and set.
They were down to identical battle gear: thick garter belts (blonde's was black, the black's was white), and stiletto high heel shoes. Their bodies were quite as voluptuous as their clothed figures had implied. They both had full, round asses, big, firm tits, and ample pussy hair. Pussy-wise, the blonde had a light brown muff, while the other's was a thick rug of kinky black.
They turned the boy sideways to the camera. The blonde came in front of him and held his cock by the knob, moving it left and right like the steerer on a golf cart. The black pus got behind him and whacked him on the buttocks with the ruler. She did it hard, six, seven times. His fanny was now a bright pink.
"Oh, did it hurt you?" the chick says then, and rubs her black thatch up against his bruised cheeks.
In front, the blonde gets on her knees and sucks him off. The spade goes off the scene and the camera moves in for some good close-up action of the blowjob. She really knew how to suck, this kraut did, swallowing it, from the overlarge head, glistening with semen, down the thin shaft to the kid's black pubic hairs. The boy said nothing, just closed his eyes and leaned his head back. She sucked up and down, steadily increasing speed. Then the Negro beauty came back, holding a tray with three glasses on it, and the blonde let the cock out of her mouth.
"Drink this," the black said, handing one of the glasses (of water, it seemed) to the boy. "And take your shirt off, too."
The two girls drank theirs. The boy was nude now, his pole half erect. The black chick took his glass and put all three on the tray on a dresser. She came back over, kneeled down, and kissed his ass.
She held his hand and said: "We want you to pee. Piss for us. Come on." She took his lowering dork gently in her hand. "Come on baby, piss for mama." The blonde too got down on her knees and watched the cock. A little piss flexed out. They were facing the camera. "Come on, come on. Mama's waiting."
The pee started coming out of his thin cock. This, more than anything made my own sweet pussy drool with delight and excitation. The girls each took a two finger hold on his cock as he pissed, and pointed it but ahead.
"Good pissing," the German cooed.
The black girl said: "Get all that pee-pee out of your cocky so we can fuck with it good."
They shook his pork dry, and moved back a few steps. "Get down on the floor, honey. Go on, get down." The boy complied. "Lena, honey, you all ready to piss?"
"Yah, all set," Lena answered, stroking the brown bush upwards from her crotch.
The black chick crouched over the boy, spreading her legs, and started to piss. She cut it off. "Come on, Lena, we gotta piss on this boy."
The boy turned over on his stomach. The blonde German straddled his ass. The spade chickie turned her back to the camera, and bent very low so that her ass and her pisshole were only a foot above his head. The blonde's great brown bush, facing the camera, opened like a fan with the spreading of her legs, an intensely erotic pussy, framed, as it was, by the dark garter belt. The blonde shot her urine out, and it streamed over the boy's ass and legs. The black resumed her pissing, now right on his head.
"Turn over, turn over," the latter girl cried, closing her sphincter for a second time. "Sit up, you muthafucka."
The boy turned over and sat up as ordered.
"Open your mouth, prick," she said, and stuck her cunt up against it. You could hear the piss coming out of her black cunt. It boiled in his mouth, and spilled out. When she had unholed the last drop, she motioned for the German to take her place.
The Fraulein had cut her kidneys when the black did, and now said: "Come on, cock, drink my piss." She sat on his face, latching her pussy over his mouth. She put her hands on her crotch, and parted and held up the thick brown hairs. She too poured steaming piss in his mouth, but moved a bit and overshot some all over his face. He coughed and snorted but did not object.
I had once read that it was physically quite possible to drink urine and not get sick. That, in fact, a couple could drink each other's piss as a matter of erotic foreplay. It seemed pretty dubious. But seeing is, as they say, believing. And now I couldn't wait to try this trick out, myself. I'd seen men urinate before, of course, my ex-husband for one dozens of times, and it never failed to turn me on: the sight of a long flaccid cock like a hose, with a thin stream of yellow liquid shooting out from the head. I never drank therefrom, though once, when I was married. I held my hubby's prick while he was pissing, with one finger on the underflesh, and I could actually feel the movement of the stuff through the hose.
Anyway, this piss-drinking would definitely go down on my list of "things to do."
Okay. So the three figures on the silver screen were now wrestling around on the ground, the girls playing dominant, roughly attacking him at mouth and groin.
The afro chick sucked his cock hard, jerked on it, and stuck it up her twat. The blonde spread her big Deutsche pussy over the young fellow's mouth. There was good intercutting here, some clearly lit close-ups of the fuck and suck action. There was the young lad's dainty tongue slipping wildly in and out of the big blonde's juicy slit. And cut: to the earthy slurping of long cock plunging deeply up the dripping black vage, and sliding out again.
"Tongue me!" the blonde shouted, simply enough.
While the sassy black cunt was starting to scream: "Fuck me! Fuck me! Shove that cock in deep. Right up my black twat! Do it, baby, do it! I'm comin'! Oh, oh, honey-doll!" The chick did seem to be really up there. That is to say, it was not the usual porno-flick actress coming, those exaggerated moans, the superficial writhing when faking the big O. She started moving her hips faster, raising her cunt up off and down, touching her own cunt frantically with her fingers, breathing deep.
The blonde too was coming strong, astride his mouth, and now, a hand behind her, trying to stick a finger in her own ass-hole. Her dialogue, though, was not so inspired.
"Oooooh ... mmmmm!" she was saying. "You cunt-sucker you! Ah! Ah! Eat my pussy-hole! Shove your tongue in! Yah! Tongue my juice, tongue my pussy juice! Chew it! Tongue me you Sch-weinhund! Oh, ooh, ooh, yah, yah! Yah! Yah! Yah! Yah!" She came, to the tune of about 55 "yah-yahs."
Meanwhile, down below, the boy was pumping pint after pint up the deep black pus. The chick wedged her cunt on harder, even as he came.
No fade-out. No dissolve. A sudden, primitively poetic blank of white leader, and then the empty glare of the naked projector bulb on the silver screen. A two reeler.
I have described the film without interruption or (hardly any) digression. This is simply to retain the tempo of the rather good effort (Dev was a well-known connoisseur and collector of this brand of cinema.). At any rate, the interruptions that have been withheld till now concern the gradually erupting action among the audience, they heady with spirits and cannabis.
The couple on the floor before us were the first I saw to succumb to the erotic influences. Already frisky before the first frame of film came on, by the time the on-screen trio had gotten to cocksucking, the couple were out of their clothes and the young man was sticking a rather nifty prick up her noisy honey-pot.
"Mmmmm, oh, go baby ... " the young chick, loudly moaned, hot as a pistol.
And somebody behind, in the chairs, said: "Hey, shh! We can't hear the dialogue."
"Ummm, ooo, fuck me ... " was the girl's only answer. The excited boy was concentrating on his aim in the dark, and breathing through the nose.
Pretty soon there were others joining in the "live" fun. On the couch behind me a famous female pop singer grappled in the fly of the long-haired stud she was seated beside. He did not protest when she removed his stiff cock and fitted her mouth over it. I didn't want to be accused of staring, though I think everyone seeing each other, in the dim light, was half the fun. The singer gave quite good head, running up and down the candy cane as it slowly spewed juices that she would suck up the shaft and into her mouth. She managed, with some difficulty, to get her panties down below her tiny skirt, while still sucking, and with her one free hand masturbate her cunt, which, from the noisy sloosh, must have been quite sopping.
I spied, in only the slight light of the film's reflection, over in the corner, Englishwoman Julie Lacey, quite stoned out, dazedly enjoying having her acclaimed cunt sucked out by boyfriend Dev (acclaimed, I say, because Julie was one of the first stars to actually show her pussy-hair in a film; and a wonderful thing it was, too, strawberry blonde, fluffy, airy hairs, a perfect cupcake of a bush).
Before long, all present were lying about with their genitals exposed, and having them pulled, sucked, stroked, or fucked, by their neighbor, or themselves in the case of one lez chick in an armchair working what looked like a blackjack up her twat. The only one not participating, neither giving or receiving favors, was that certain ascetic gentleman, alone in his chair, legs crossed under him, examining the proceedings on screen with a icy Zen reserve.
Thick, well-packed joints were being convivially shared, passed from person to person, while one or two could be seen to snort from their personal stashes of cocaine, but unostentatiously for Dev, it was known, disapproved of the substance (what was not known, by many, was that Dev's younger sister, living in New York, was a fucked-up coke head, with not much nose to speak of, it being eaten away by the snow).
My own companion for the evening, Richard Winters, was moved, but not unduly, by the fuck and suck (and piss) action. He took a deep, quiet toke on the joint that had been passed to him, reached casually up my dress to upper thigh, causing me to tingle warmly, and said: "Would you like me to eat your pussy?"
"Oh, yes Richard," I encouraged. I hunched up my gown to my hosed thighs, and further up to my hips.
His hand ran inside my thigh up to my crotch. He fiddled his fingers at the leg band of the silk panties, felt through to the thick hairs, and further into my moist cunt. His fingers were coating with my come juices. He took another deep toke on the joint, handed it to me, and then, with both hands, slipped my panties under my ass-cheeks and down to my knees.
A wave of wet excitation rose in me at this first moment of my cunt exposed to all who cared to look. Few, of course, were very interested in my cunt, with both the movie to watch, and their partner's cock or cunt to be fondled, though one guy I knew slightly, sitting to the left behind us, having his dork sucked by a renowned comedian's teenybopper daughter, did say: "Oh Helen, I see red hairs on your cunt, if the light doesn't deceive me. I knew you weren't dyed. Let me fuck you later." His head-jobber slid up on his cock and said: "Never mind, you bastard, you're with me."
Richard Winters stretched out before me on the , floor, and moved his head in between my legs. His tongue reached slowly, deeply into my damp twat, and licked upwards. He would lick slowly, methodically trailing his tongue up the tender pink flesh, and then suddenly switch tempo to a quick licking, jabbing, twirling. I felt my cunt juices foaming to his expert eating out.
I wiggled my ass, inching my cunt up closer to his mouth, and pulled another toke on the grass. I was fairly stoned by then, having done about six full joints of good stuff since my arrival. I tingled all over, that kind of light near-coming feeling, dancing in my thighs, in my breasts. My head was light, dreamy, yet at the same time icy clear in regards to the movie, which seemed to take on a strange kind of presence, a reality, as if I was there on the scene, not in it but, let's say, just left of the cameraman.
The real-life action, contrarily, with all the moans and sighs of pricks being eaten or being stuck up sweet young twats, not to mention my own drooling pussy being well handled, and my being pot stoned, all of it seemed a kind of hazy unreal, as if it were all in a movie or in my mind.
Many became giddy from the grass, and when in the film the chick said: "piss for mama," several broke down into smashed hilarity.
The film finally flickered off, and then we were all in a deep blackness, fucking, sucking, being fucked, or sucked, or jerked off, or jerking off. I started to come. I pulled my gown up further, spread my legs, then drew them close around his head. I gripped his arm and I wailed: "God, suck it, I'm coming ... ooh, God, my pussy is burning!"
The sound in the room, with the elimination suddenly of the film track and the whirring projector, was solely the sweaty friction of grappling bodies, rolling, rising sobs, sighs, groans, and erotic laughter.
The overhead lights by stages brightened, the work no doubt of a humorless projectionist, and we were all made clearly visible. I lay back on the floor, breathless, and observed the rest, a dozen or so, busily pounding away, most of them, beautiful people, famous people, all caught in this lovely tableau.
Richard lay below me, his head propped lovingly on my full thigh, his lips puckered lightly against the soft flesh there. I let my hand trail down my front to my red curls and my open cunt, all damp and hot, sticky with my juices unleashed and flowing from both the erotic stimulus of the film and the brilliant suck job by handsome Richard.
I reached down to his silky brown hair and pulled lightly. He moved his head as I guided it, and rested his lips between my parted nether ones. He blew very softly at the moistness all over there. With each blow a chill filled my cunt, a quite pleasant after-coming sensation.
He looked up at me, his nose parting my red pussy curls, my sweet juices visible about his face, and said: "Helen, why don't we split here, and take a dip in the pool."
"Sure, Richard. Thinking of fucking me underwater?"
"Something like that," he answered, kissing my hairy mound, and sitting up.
I raised my left leg and slipped off my panties from the ankle. "No need, then to put these back on just yet," I said.
We got up off the floor. The others were too preoccupied to notice us. We opened the heavy door and slipped out, down the dark hallway to the front entrance to the house, and back out to the party area. The music was still playing loud and heavy out there, early Jimi Hendrix now. There were far less people than before, their number being dispersed to various corners, some out at the pool, some upstairs in the bedrooms, downstairs in the billiards' room, and of course those in the projection room. There were, though, a few here. A young couple were fucking on a couch in the corner, and two pair were at the center of the room dancing in close embrace. One of these duo's were also fucking: they were bottomless, and the girl, very tall, was able to fit the man's stiff peter between her legs easily, and hold it tightly as they swayed around to the music.
At the opposite end of the room were large French windows. Past these was a stone staircase that led down to the pool area.
The turquoise water shone mysteriously under the arc light that lit it and the cement area surrounding, like a mirage of an oasis in space with the dark night all around beyond. There were raucous calls and sensuous groans emanating from the pool as we approached. There was a lot of the typical swimming pool roughhouse going on, but with a few minor additions than seen at the local swim club. For one thing, everyone was nude. And there was much fucking going on. Several couples were really at it, rhythmically bobbing up and down within a few feet of each other in the water.
Most unusual was the gang-bang in progress just at poolside on the cement. A very attractive brunette, very well-built with large tits and wide hips, and a round pink tummy, was lying on a chaise lounge, lowered halfback, and allowing the carnal entrance of I-don't-know-how-many men; men of all sizes and shapes and abilities. They were standing in line for her when we got there. Richard and I stood by to watch this charming spectacle.
While one was plowing her spread-eagled pussy, the others in line, seriously six or eight of them, would watch carefully and massage their cocks (some of them gloriously long and thick, I noticed!), so that then they were nicely half-erect by the moment of first touch on pussy-lips. I slapped my thighs together, hastening the forming moistness in my cunt as I saw these big cocks one behind the other, their owners massaging them into stiff poles for fucking. And the front man there, extending his hardened member into the come-soaked depths of the wild brunette, she lying back, deliriously happy with herself, with the profusion of nice cock she was getting to try out this night.
A goodtime gang-bang. Here was yet another experience I had yet to indulge in, despite my life-long devotion to the pleasures of the flesh. Oh, how my cunt seeped its juices at the sight of this line-up. I saw the girl there, but fantasized her as myself. That was me astraddle the chaise, staring ahead at the next big cock ready to assault me. I would take it in my hands, squeeze the fat mushroom head, bend it down to my trembling nether lips, and work it between them, and then the thrust up my deep cunt, up to the hilt. In, out, the thrusting prick, and finally the sweet ejaculation. The cock softens. I release him and the next man approaches, a cock even thicker, pulsing and gorgeous. Oh, God. I hold it at the root, my hands pressed into the black bush of his pubic hairs. In it stabs, and he shoots his load. And so on. I turned from the sight in a frenzy.
"I've gotta be fucked," I said to Richard. "I hope you know your stuff."
"Well now, didn't I do all right sucking out your cunt?"
"Oh yes, love, never fear. But I've got to admit something about myself. No amount is ever enough where that hole below my bush is concerned."
"I see. Well, I'll try to accommodate it. Let's get undressed and into the pool. That heated water," he said, feeling my cunt with his palm, "will feel quite nice in your sopping pus."
"Mm, yes," I agreed, holding him by the wrist for a moment to prolong the thrill of his cold hand in my damp crotch. He playfully scratched a nail along the tight hairs running up the side of my open pussy. I reached a hand towards his prick. It moved at my touch and slid down to a bulge along his leg.
'. 'Come on, get your dress off. I'm ready, as you can see, for a good wet fuck."
"Help me with the hook, will you." He did so, and moved the black gown down my back. My creamy, round buttocks came into view, and he patted me there before stepping back and attending to his own undressing. I finished before him, and stood there nude, watching as he unleashed his enormous cock. He must have been damn hot and horny, because his massive prick was really stiff, to that (I imagine) painfully taut degree that is hard to work with unless you suck on it for awhile, or, perhaps, put it in the heated water of a swimming pool.
To the latter we headed, diving, both of us, into an unoccupied sector, emerging, and splashing about friskily. He caught me then, and held me close in strong arms. His cock was still stiff, I felt with both hands, but more pliably so. I jerked it up and down, and squeezed at his balls, tight in their sac now. We rolled and bobbed in the waves we created.
"Put it in. Put your big pricky in me," I said, raising my legs around him, my heels at his firm ass-cheeks. A veritably indecent heat surged through my pussy as I opened my legs wide under the water.
It was not as easy a position for screwing as I imagined; we kept suddenly submerging, and would bob back up, spraying each other with what we swallowed. But I got it in. And God it was big, filling me up the pussy nearly to my gut. And then we got the hang of it, and the waves we created in our movements came in sync, and it was a most marvelous fuck session.
The thrusts of his great cock were able to move in and pull out faster and with more force from the pressure of the water's sway, as when you fuck on a water bed only more intense.
"Oh shit, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," I started shouting as the big O came on the horizon.
"I'm coming, baby. Here we go," Richard replied.
He was really fucking my pussy at a strenuous speed. A web of sublime pleasure rose from my loins to my brain, layer after layer. Then the straight punch of his cock ejaculating. It seemed as though the wad of burning jism was shooting up my pussy-hole direct to my head, shooting through the water that freely filled my fat cunt.
I held onto him for balance, too worn out to float free. My legs stayed locked around his ass, with the cock held warmly within me. He held his arms outstretched, and kept us afloat, breathing heavily with his mouth open.
Finally I could let him go, and drop back in the water, though we stayed in coital closeness, forming a T with our lower halves locked straight down, and our upper halves above the surface leaning back from each other.
We got up on the cement poolside, and lay side by side. We were there five minutes or so when, from the house, someone (the well-hung doorman it appeared) shouted down: "Hey, hello! Is Richard
Winters down there? Richard Winters. His agent's here looking for him."
"Ah, shit," Richard said softly. "Business. I told him to come for me when he got back into town. So, I'll have to check out on the party, I'm afraid."
"Okay," I sighed. "I'll walk you to the house."
We gathered our clothes together. He slipped his pants and shirt on; I stayed nude.
At the top of the stone staircase we stopped. He kissed me and said: "Take care. I'll ring you up in a few days. If you like?"
"Sure. Do that, Richard. Don't work too hard."
He smiled, his first of the evening, and, parting the French windows, went on into the house. There were more people about now. A rotund man with dark glasses came towards Richard, put an arm across his shoulder, and they continued on in the direction of the front door.
I turned and leaned against the metal railing, and I looked up at the night sky, and down at the pool, and across to the darkness of the forest beyond. A warm breeze caressed my red pussy curls. My hand moved to touch them, to stroke lovingly the cunt that meant so much to me. My body felt unusually ripe and round that night. I touched my breasts. The nipples were standing out erect. I passed my hands over my full ass-cheeks, letting the tips of my fingers rest in the long crack and feel the hint of tightly grown hair there near my ass-hole. It would have been nice to stand there on that porch all night, it was such a lovely atmosphere, but a call of nature arose. I had to take a piss. There were toilets down by the pool, but I didn't feel like returning there, so I went into the house.
I paraded my bouncing buttocks and sizable tits proudly, and caught more than a few looks as I crossed the room, particularly at the rosy richness of my bush, bright scarlet and all as it was.
I went into the hallway. The toilet there was locked and occupied. I found the staircase and went up to the second floor. There was no one about. I went to the bathroom door and found it locked also. I thought it might have been locked by someone using the connecting bedroom entrance and forgetting to unlock it, so I went into that dark bedroom to try it. I heard a voice. Not words, just low human noises. I tried the door handle. It was unlocked. I silently opened the door an inch. Inside, two yards from me, was a gentleman I have pointed out to you earlier in the proceedings. Ascetic, I called him, zen-like, spiritual. Uninvolved in the baser pursuits of the other party attendants. Well, that was his public appearance. But now I was witnessing the private man. He was sitting naked on the toilet, with his right hand beating his meat furiously, a thick prick that he held low, at the base. Semen drooled all around the fat knob of his prick head. The man, while he jerked, pointed his face towards the ceiling, with his eyes tightly shut, and his mouth hung open (and from this coming those low grunts I had heard outside). He was too swept up in his self-pleasure to notice me or hear me enter. You can't imagine how exciting it was to see this young man jerking off, pulling his own dork like that, and reacting so intensely to his own manipulations. I stood transfixed. He jerked, finally, far faster than I had ever managed with all the cock I've touched, and he came, his white come shooting high in the air and down, some on the black throw rug, some on his knees, on the walls, some even, I thin reaching the ceiling. He pulled it still, more slowly now, his eyes still shut tight.
I closed the door noiselessly and stepped back from it. I lay against the wall and felt my pussy. It was tingling. Juice was foaming once again. I went over and hopped onto the high bed, centering myself atop the heavy white spread. I fingered my cunt. I massaged it, the mound, the tender lips, inserting two fingers up the moist hole, moving them slowly, rhythmically, to great satisfaction, closing my eyes and thinking of that man, the ascetic, and that long fuckpoke of his he was jerking.
There was just no two ways about it: the sight of a stiff cock turned me on. All I'd have to do is see one, and I trembled. And seeing was seldom enough. The sight of a throbber, with a thick head and hairy balls, just one look-and I had to sit on it, or suck on it, or, as this time, at least masturbate. To feel this way, I do not have to be "in the mood" or any such nonsense; it is a constant. In fact, to give you a clue to my nature, I will admit that quite often I soak my pussy with juice just walking on a street, from the thought that every man I pass, so innocuously, has beneath his trousers this hunk of muscle and meat that hardens into a beautiful tool of passion. Oh yes, my ultimate fantasy: simply to blow and fuck every man of earth!
FOUR
I returned to the party scene some short time later, sans undies though in my black gown, my luscious boobs clearly in view at the low-cut front. I saw in a mirror that ran along the staircase, that the garment now accentuated even more the full round ripeness of my twin buttocks. I narcissistic-ally wondered how any man or woman present could possibly keep their hands from at least grazing my warm ass.
Sure enough, the first man I talked to when I had secured a drink (Scotch and soda), slowly edged his hand down from my shoulder to my big fanny. He pretended the movements were in natural adjustment to the changes in tone of his conversation.
"Well, you know, and I told him, that's how I feel too ... " And he would laugh and drop the large hand to the curve at my hip. Finishing the humorous anecdote, and whoo, the hand had rolled right firmly to the center of my wide tushy. His palm rubbed the crevasse where the cheeks met, and I saw his crotch bulge with cock.
Some writer friends of mine were moving into a circle of chairs nearby, and so I turned to the man and said, mock-sternly: "Would you mind taking your hand out of my ass now, I want to join some friends."
They were breaking out a bottle of champagne, and Harlan Elsford poured us each a glass. The others were: Elaine Peary, another of our rare breed of women screenwriters; Monte Beckman, the director; and redhead Carla Doud, the actress and nightclub entertainer. Miss Doud had intellectual pretensions beyond her depth. She was always going on talk shows and discussing her asinine interpretations of politics and art, and had often dated a famous U.S. statesman (who was probably less interested in her mind than in her tits, which were enormous). She had apparently squeezed her (beautiful) self into our little group uninvited, though, of course, the two men were not unhappy in getting to know her. And she did supply a wild (but quite non-intellectual) coup d'grace to the discussion, that became the hit of the party. I explain:
We had been talking for awhile, and drinking a good deal of bubbly. Elaine Peary had the floor. She was telling us about her current assignment, writing a film script for a version of Rabelais' "Gargantua", and describing with relish and high humor the difficulties of putting on the screen (hardly!) crucial sequences such as that when Gargantua begins a noble search for the "perfect ass-wipe."
"It's a crazy sequence in the book," Elaine was saying. "This young Gargantua experiments with all the possibilities for wiping one's ass after shitting. It's very funny some of the things he tries out. And do you know what he decides on? What he found to be the perfect object for the job? The neck of a live white goose. Can you imagine? Wiping your ass with a live goose? Pretty weird, huh?"
We all laughed. Carla, who had not found much to say previously, and so resigned herself to drinking more and more champagne, was inspired now by this bawdy segment.
As if to show she had caught the spirit of the moment, she laughingly, with one hand, raised her dress up in the front to her hips, exhibiting a crimson bush in full bloom, lifted one leg up on the coffee table, and put her empty champagne glass under her cunt lips. She gazed down at her cunt, then up at us. She arched her eyebrows, and, just like that, let a stream of piss wlidosh out of her pisshole and into the glass. It filled immediately, and overflowed onto the couch before she could cut off the sphincter. She held a big open-mouthed smile on her face. We stared at her in amazement. She raised the champagne glass, filled with her sizzling piss, and said, as a toast: "To Rabelais."
We were all silent and impressed for the moment. Then we broke down and laughed wildly, and Carla laughed, and blew into the glass of her urine that she was holding under her nose. We laughed for a good minute, and then saw poor Carla start to waver. The glass started to tilt. Harlan took it from her and put it on the table. She started to say: "Tonight I think I have had too much to ... " and passed out.
A nude blonde houseboy with a thick prick passed, and Harlan stopped him and said: "Hey, would you carry Miss Doud upstairs, pal. She needs to sleep it off."
"Right-o," the blonde boy replied, and bent down to scoop her up in sinewy arms. He had to stretch his legs around because of the table, and I got a damn good look at his cock and his dangling balls with their blonde hairs, and the darker hairs running up his ass crack which he backed against my shoulder as he lifted the drunken Carla up in his arms. I moved my shoulder away, and gave him a little goose, tweaking the hairs over his ass-hole. He smiled down at me, and carried the girl over to the staircase and up to the bedrooms.
When our little group's ration of champagne (two Jeroboams) was absorbed, Monte Beckman signalled for a waiter to come over. The young black man was carrying a tray of canapes, which we helped ourselves to while submitting our drink orders.
A little later, around one a.m., Elaine left for home, and we were joined by a man I had certainly heard of but never met, Milos Keisler, a Czech emigre director of considerable reputation (professionally, as a creator of exotic and sensational suspense films; personally, as a concupiscent cunt chaser). He was short, quite short, and about forty, though he looked much younger with his long black hair drooping down over his eyebrows. His nose was long and sharp. He was thin-lipped and seemed to be smiling evilly at all times. His English fluctuated between erudite and scrambled, and had American hipsterisms coexisting with a sometimes-thick Eastern European accent.
"Hallo Harlan. How are you?"
"Milos," Harlan said. "Hello. Where have you been hiding all night?"
"No, I have just arrived you see. I was all this time at the studio. We just today put the first cut together on my film. Oh, terrible. A lot wrong with it, you know."
"Another masterpiece, more-likely."
"No, no. I was all night fixing, cutting. My editor left me at ten and I was for three hours by myself at the moviola. I really screwed up on zis baby. Ah shit, let me get something to drink. Hey vaiter, you, vaiter, viskey, hey?"
"Sit down, Milos, join us," Monte suggested.
"Yah, thanks, Monte."
"You know Helen Brady?"
He sat next to me, and now, for the first time, noticed me. His eyes stared hotly at my lush titties, well displayed below the v-line, visible up to an inch from the nipples.
"It is a great pleasure, Miss Brady. You are the most lovely thing I have seen this night."
"Thank you, sir," I beamed.
"You are what: a starlet, a chorus girl, yes?"
"This is Helen Brady, the writer," Harlan corrected. "She scripted 'Night Tempest," Kudrick's picture."
"Oh. Oh yes, very excellent film. Superb. Such classical construction, if I remember rightly. You know," he continued, taking the whiskey that was brought to him and sipping it down, "a great professional scriptwriter is a rare thing these days. Even rarer than a great director-like myself."
We chuckled at his very conscious conceit, an endearing trait as he displayed it.
"More viskey," he shouted at the departing waiter's back, and took my hand in his. "A brilliant mind and a sexy body," he said.
"Who are you talking about now," Monte joked, "you or her?"
"Oh, Miss Brady, of course. May I call you Helen?"
"Sure," I said.
"Good. And you call me Milos. I think we can be good friends, yes?"
I smiled at him. He moved my hand closer to his crotch, which was tightly encased in blue jeans. The waiter came over with more drinks.
The conversation turned more general then, Milos Keisler's lechery abated for the nonce (but not for too long).
Monte said: "I'm content not to work for another year. It's already been seven months since 'Pillars' came out. I got money in the barrel, baby."
Milos answered: "Yah, not me. The best thing is for me to get right to work on something new, you know. In this town they think you do one bad picture you are washed up."
"Milos, you're getting paranoid," Harlan said. "Cool down or you'll freak on self-created nightmares."
"I'm okay. It's the truth, you know. And two failures and they'll be passing the hat for my fare back to Czechoslovakia. That, or television, Christ forbid."
"Drink your drink, Milos," I said, laughing. He looked at me, his eyes trailing heavily again over the long titline, that crevice of soft pink flesh, braless beneath the plunging neckline.
"Yes," he said, huskily. "No sense to worry. We must live for today. Seize the pleasure of the moment. Correct, Helen dearest?"
"Oh yes," I agreed. "Oh yes."
"Do you have anything in mind?" Monte said.
"Huh?" Milos asked, preoccupied with my coy looks and fleshy tits.
"For the next picture you want to get right to work on."
"Oh ... yah. Is a new book I read. Producer brought it to my attention. He has the rights and wants me to direct. But enough all the time talking shop! Don't you agree, Helen?" he said, moving his hand to touch my forearm. I shrugged that arm.
"Oh, I like to talk shop."
"That's what I say, I like to talk shop. Okay, how you would like to write script with me on new picture?"
"Hm?"
"Seriously. We tell producer you're in deal. You can read the book tomorrow, tell me yes or no. What you think?"
"Uh, professional offers are generally a little more thought out than this; a little more business-like."
He sat back and threw up his arms with a sigh. "Ah, business. Red tape. Bureaucracy. Denigration of the individual. Is for this reason I split Czechoslovakia. No fun. No freedom. Only one thing I miss of my native country: the girls there have much hairier pussies. Thick, black rugs they have between their legs there. Ah, yes." He dropped his hand to my thigh. "Listen, why don't we discuss this."
I looked at my watch. "Well, it all seems very interesting, indeed. But I think we can better sort out the proposition in the morning. Right now it's getting on to two o'clock, and I think I'll be heading for home."
"Ah ... did you come here by car?"
"No. Limousine. I guess I'll have to get a taxi."
"Oh, fuck the taxi. I will drive you home, yes? And we talk about the project on the way."
"I don't know ... . "
"Please. Is no trouble. Since we may be working together creatively, we must get to know each other, right? To see if we are compatible, spiritually."
"Spiritually?" I asked suspiciously.
"Watch him, Helen," Harlan said. "It's your pants he wants to get into, not your mind."
"My intentions," Milos corrected, "are purely artistic. Not to deny, though, that Miss Brady is a very desirable woman."
"Oh fuck it, let's go then," I said.
Milos smiled even more evilly at this and breathed: "Yah. My car awaits."
We started to get up. Milos finished the last sip of his drink. And then there was a scream.
It came from the second floor. Everyone rushed over to the staircase and looked up. There was silence for a moment. Someone started up the steps (the rest langourously high and content to just stare). The man on the steps was halfway up when that first scream was complemented by a solid boom like something thrown against a wall. Then a door cracked open and there was a scuffling beyond the staircase. Two bodies rolled into view, grappling on the floor. Then Carla Doud appeared over them, nude, her crimson bush and full tits shimmering as if just come from a fuck session, and she started hitting at them.
"You weirdo!" she was shouting. "Fucking creep!"
She was apparently only trying to pummel one of them, but was certainly hitting both they were so furiously locked. They rolled suddenly backward then, and Carla fell over them and came tumbling down the steps. She did two somersaults, the second one including such a high arc that she crashed down rather roughly on her round bottom. She sprawled about, sliding the rest of the way down sideways. She stopped at the last step and lay on her stomach. We all stared, speechless, at her big fanny, all bright red from the bangs she had received on it.
"Owwwwww," she moaned.
At the top of the stairs, the two fighters had risen, or that is to say one had risen and brought the other one with him. It was the big, big-cocked doorman of earlier who did the lifting. The losing warrior turned out to be the ascetic, mystic yogi I had caught jerking off in the bathroom. He looked truly pathetic now, and frightened.
Harlan and Monte had gone over to help Carla up, making sure to graze her big tits, rosebush, and reddened ass-cheeks as they did. They got her away from the staircase landing just in time. Up above, the doorman launched a fist the size of a basketball into the ascetic's jaw, sending him furiously back against the wall. He put his large hand around the kid's neck, and shot him straight down the stairway head first. The poor ascetic passed the first ten steps in midair, then crashed his brain against the railed banister, crumpled into a fetal ball, and rolled the final few feet to the landing.
"Shithead!" the doorman screamed, his firm cock bobbing, and he stormed down the steps.
The ascetic retched, got to his knees, to his feet, and ran for the front door, the doorman close behind. Out they both went into the night.
Over on a couch, Harlan and Monte, and several others, were consoling Carla, stroking her cheeks tenderly, and her breasts, and her muff. Milos and I went over to them.
"What happened?" I said to Carla. "What did he do?"
"Shit. My ass is broken. Oh, I think it's broken. My beautiful fanny." She turned on her side to get a glimpse of her bare red ass-cheeks. She touched the plump flesh delicately. "Oww, sore ... "
"Let me see," Harlan said, caressing the round cheek. "It's just bruised. It'll be a little black-and-blue for a couple of days."
"Oh, my sore little ass."
"It's not that little," Monte said, moving his hand up the crack where thick fur stuck out all along.
"What happened?" I said again. "What did that creepy guy do to you?"
"Oh brother," she groaned, still in pain from the fall, but regaining her composure, even though she was naked, with numerous people staring at her, and two men feeling for her hairy ass-hole. "Well, I guess I must have passed out down here."
"We know that part of it."
"Well, somebody brought me upstairs and put me in bed. I must have been sleeping for awhile.
The room was pretty dark. Then-let me see ... I started dreaming-" I got the distinct impression her narrative would become interminable: she, of course, absolutely loved being the center of attention. "I started having a very sexy dream, I remember it vaguely. It was something back in my high school. Yeah, yeah, I'm remembering now. I was in my old high school class. There were all these boys and girls, about sixteen or seventeen, although I was my present age in the dream, which is-well, I can't tell you that, can I? Ha, ha! Oh, so, I was in this classroom and the teacher was there. He was tall, dark-"
"And handsome?" someone broke in.
"Yes, that's right. And handsome. Well, I was in this classroom and without any clothes on! Gosh, I don't know if I should tell this-it's kind of weird, you know?"
"Go ahead," Monte B. said, "I think we can take it."
"I guess it's all right. You're all friends," she shrugged innocently, her twiny rosebush gleaming, at least three male hands touching the muff between her glorious ass-cheeks where the blush of injury was not subsiding. She was on her side on the couch, with people standing around, and several seated on the arms and edge of the couch, hence the accessibility of her crotch to curious hands. The owners of the hands well deserved the feels they copped, as reward for listening to this boring saga. But then she sat up, putting her legs on the floor, and her crotch went out of bounds of polite touch. Her titties swung out fully as she sat up, and the nipples popped slightly from the round red base.
"Carla," I said, impatiently, "would you care to tell us what happened between you, the skinny yogi, and the husky doorman?"
"Helen, I'm getting to it," she answered, pleasantly annoyed. "Where was I?" she resumed, turning from me, the rude interruption.
"The dream, the dream," one of the muff-strokers said wearily.
"Of course. I had this dream where I was in a classroom in my old high school. I was completely naked, sitting, crouching on the desk at the front of the classroom, sort of crouching down with my big ass stuck up in the air at all these fifteen and sixteen year-old boys and girls. And they were all, boys and girls, looking at me there, and smacking their lips-well, I guess you can see what a piece of fur I've got running from my pussy up my ass! Ha, ha! Well, we're all adults here, I guess I'm not shocking anybody, or anything."
The men present shook their heads slowly, all of them popping their pants by now. The three or four women listening mumbled inaudibly.
I was less petty about the whole thing, not even impatient now with her digressions. As a matter-of-fact, her tale was starting to stir my clit.
"And for some strange reason," she continued, all naivete, "I kept having this urge to shake my little fanny at them. Wiggle it and such, pretty obscenely, right at their gazing young faces. Well, pretty soon the handsome teacher was back talking to them, me still on my knees with my can open and stuck out. And he tells them that now it's time for their penmanship lessons in high school, for Pete's sake, but then this whole dream was a little bit nutty.. .the teacher set up a standing easel and fixed a large-size pad of cream colored lined paper to it.
"He faced the class and said: 'Johnny Jones, will you fill the inkwell now so I may demonstrate the lesson.' And then a boy with glasses, seventeen or so, but acting like he was ten, came up from his seat, went to the closet, and came back with a thing that looked like, looked like, uh, a meat baster, you know? With a rubber bulb you squeeze, and a stiff nozzle. He was holding it with the nozzle in the air so none of what was in it would spill out. Then he stood before the desk, before my gyrating ass-cheeks. He looked at the teacher who was standing beside the easel. 'Fill it?' the boy asked. 'Fill the inkwell,' the teacher answered sternly. The boy said 'Yes sir.' and then he leaned towards my ass. With one hand he held open a cheek, and with the other he sorted through the bushy red hair on my ass, looking for my shithole, I guessed. Oh, it was driving me crazy, his hands all playing with my muff, pushing the hair this way and that in search of that little pink eye. Then he found it. He held it open with two fingers. He took the thing with the ink in it and stuck the nozzle into my ass-hole.
"Well, my sphincter muscle tightened, then loosened on it, and he stuck it up further. He squeezed the bulb and the ink shot into my ass canal. The strange, unrealistic thing was how it felt, how it stayed there tightly in my ass, as though inside my ass-hole was a test tube or, in fact, an inkwell. It just sloshed about tightly, a little spilling out and stickily wetting my muffhair so that I had to raise my fanny higher in the air.
" 'Thank you, Johnny,' the teacher said, and the boy took his seat. 'Class, today I will demonstrate the Cyrillic alphabet. Everyone get out your pens and a fresh sheet of paper.'
"Past the half-moon of my left cheek, I looked back at the class. They were quickly complying with the instructor's request. He, meanwhile, took a big blue pen out from the desk drawer and then came back around. 'The Cyrillic,' he said, addressing them again, in well-modulated tone, 'is the Slavic alphabet ascribed to Cyril, ninth century missionary to the Slavs. In its present form it is the alphabet of Russia, Bulgaria, and Yugoslavia. I will write now the first five letters of the Cyrillic script.'
"Then he took hold of my ass, and turned it to face him and the easel. I looked back at him, puzzled. Ignoring me, he held a cheek steady and put the big blue pen, an old ink dipper, into my puckered, inky ass-hole! Oh, God. And it smarted. The tip was sharply pointed metal. But he stuck it right in the old shithole, a good two inches, and then plucked it out, shook it a bit, and proceeded to write out some strange letters on the pad on the easel, the pen now dripping with a lovely shade of deep purple ink. I watched him write. He had a steady hand, a florid, lovely penmanship. He finished three letters, then turned and popped the pen head back in my shitter.
"He pulled it out, but when he saw it was dripping too much, leaned back and wiped it off a bit on the thick pussy hair that lined my crotch. Now I felt all gooey and wet above my pussy there, the thick curly hairs all sticky and parted unnaturally apart from my ass-hole. And I was stiff, getting cramps from my squat position, trying to keep my spread rear in the air. Oh, what a crazy dream." She sighed.
Her audience stood about, fairly benumbed by her candor. But someone did manage to ask: "But why'd you scream? And what about the two clowns fist fighting on the staircase?"
"Oh, that," she said in a vague, disinterested voice, as if to signify that the reality would obviously pale beside her fab fantasy (that is to say fabulous or fabricated, depending on your view, natch). But, reluctantly, she proceeded to clarify.
"Well, I was having this weird dream, as presented. And I was feeling really nice, with this teacher poking the pen into my rear end. I started to wake, sort of half wake, and the dream was fading off but I was still feeling quite good. Very slowly, I realized there was a human body on top of me, and I was being fucked. For real now. I kind of didn't want to wake up completely, you know? It felt so great being fucked while half asleep, and this guy was really popping my pussy something beautiful. It felt like an abnormally long and powerful cock, and my cunt, I realized, had grown quite fond of it during all this screwing I had been sleeping through. I mean, I don't know how long he had been going at it, when precisely it was he stuck it in my pus, but it was certainly long enough to have my crotch churning with its own hot juices. Because it was! My legs were trembling with pleasure."
"And this," Harlan interrupted, "was that seedy-looking long-haired guy that got beat up fucking you so good."
"No, silly. But I couldn't tell that then. Not until I really started getting close to coming. Then's when I shot my eyes open and screamed at him: 'Harder! Fuck me! Fuck me! Oh you big fat cock!' Oh, boy he could ball well."
"Who was it, for Christ sake?" Milos demanded.
"The other fella, of course. The blonde boy. What a big, thick prick that young man has. I must ask Dev if I can have him join my house staff. I'll make him a gardener ... or, what is he, a doorman, or whatever he'd like. Jeez, my cunt is swollen from that pounding. I mean, once he saw I was awake he let me really have it; see, he was being easy so as not to disturb my sleep, ha! He had me coming for about five minutes solid, and then he shot his wad, about a quart by conservative estimate.
"We lay there tightly, breathing heavy, his cock still well up my cunt. You know, even by then the guy hadn't spoken a word. I still don't think I've heard him speak. Is he American? He could have been, um, German or Danish or something, right? Well, we lay there for a minute or so, very quietly now. And then we were aware of this noise. A human moan, sort of. The blonde boy looked at me, puzzled, and then rolled off. It was very dim in the room, only moonlight through the open window. He reached to the nightstand and switched on a light. We didn't see anything at first. We heard this breathing, a sharp snort through someone's nose. Then we saw him. It was this guy, the skinny one with the long hair. He was on the floor, slightly visible behind a stuffed chair. My lover-boy jumped to his feet and ran over.
"He threw the chair over on its side and revealed this crazy guy. That's when I screamed. All he had on was an undershirt. He was in a yoga set-up, lotus position or something, and jerking off, his cock stiff, sticking up, with his hand stretched around it, hammering it up and down wildly. Apparently, he had been watching us, listening to us fuck and jerking off to it, you know, wow! I guess he didn't get off fast enough, maybe he was trying too hard to be quiet about it. Anyway, when the doorman approached him he was too near coming to stop, and so he just beat his meat the last few strokes and stared up at the huge guy obviously about to kick the living shit out of him. And whoom, the guy's prick, a long, skinny thing like him, started spitting cum up to the ceiling, some of it splattering forward at the doorman who now leaned down and picked the kid up onto his feet by his head. He slugged him in the face. The kid's hair flew all over in front of him so that his head looked like the end of a mop. The blonde doorman picked him up, hung him over his shoulder, and threw the fellow against the opposite wall. The kid screamed, high pitched, and threw open the door beside him, and started to split. The blonde went after him. Then the skinny kid kind of freaked I guess, 'cause he started fighting back. And they both fell to the floor in a huddle. They flip-flopped out to the staircase. Well, from there I guess you know first hand. They went off together, and I dropped down hard on my fanny ... ooo, it's still pretty sore," she ended, rubbing the discolored left ass-cheek.
"Whew," Monte Beckman said, "you stretched it all out pretty good, huh?"
"My fanny?" she said, wildly misunderstanding, thinking her career suddenly on the line.
"No, your story" he elucidated.
"Yah, baby," Milos interjected, stepping back from the huddle and the pussy-exposed entertainer, "you sure know how to drop the bullshit on some innocent people." He gave me the nod and I followed behind. "Do you know this girl?" he asked.
"Not very well," I answered. "Mercifully, not very well."
"Flea-brain cunt. I wouldn't mind fucking her, though, no?"
"I wouldn't mind fucking her, myself," I said, causing him to raise his eyebrows and size me up again with his lecher look.
Then he smiled. "You are a very interestin woman. I am quite fascinated by you already, do you believe me?"
"I don't know if you're fascinated or horny. Why allihe hot air about some script you need me for?"
"Is not hot air, madam. I know your work very well. You may very possibly be right for it. We must talk. I am serious, yes."
"Okay," I said, smiling suspicious. We had stopped under the arch before the hall to the front door. "You were going to take me home I believe."
"You are not in a great hurry are you, Helen?"
"Well, I have had a full day and tiring night."
"Yah, okay, so I take you. Let's go."
We reached the door, but someone called from the hall that led to the projection room. It was Patrick Devraugh. "Milos. Hold on, where are you going?"
"Hello Dev. Nice party. Got to be going."
"I've been looking for you. What, you just got here?"
"Yah, I was held up in the cutting room. I arrived, uh, half an hour ago. What's up?"
"I have something I wanted to show you. Something up your alley. Just got it today. A real curio., so to speak."
"What is it?"
"New film."
"How long will it take?"
"Fifteen minutes. Not much more. Come on." Dev, as I mentioned, was a blue movie collector, and he acted now like a little kid anxious to show off the hobby.
"Okay," Milos said, turning to me. "We take a look?"
"Oh, Helen," Dev started warily, "I don't know if you want to see it. It's pretty weird. Kind of strong stuff. That's why I didn't show it to the crowd in there, they'd think I was nuts. I mean, it made me a little sick, myself, and I wouldn't want you going home saying my party ended up giving you bad dreams or anything."
"Don't you have these apprehensions for Milos?" I asked. "Or are you old-fashionedly figuring 'because I'm a woman'? "
"No, no, Helen, nothing like that. But MilosMilos is a little different from you and me ... his tastes run a little more extreme than the average."
"Let's stop the gabbing," Milos said. "If she wants to see it, let her see it. It's getting late and we've got some, uh, business to discuss."
"Okey-doke. But forewarned is forewarned, right?" Dev said, raising a forefinger.
"Right," I agreed.
He motioned to follow him back down the hall. He checked to see no one was following, letting us pass him into the hallway, while lid backed up slowly behind, ever watchful like he was a secret agent about to show us the microfilm.
We went into the projection room, and he closed and locked the door.
"Have some seats. I'll have to thread it up. One minute only."
We sat down in a thickly-cushioned loveseat close to the hanging silver screen. Milos took out a gold cigarette case, opened it, and offered me one. I declined. He lit one, puffed a few times, and let the gray smoke waft out and drift away. He smiled at me; that tight-lipped smile of carnality with a hint of evil.
He spoke to me in soft voice so as not to be overheard and offend: "Every time he gets some new film he is particularly proud of, he gets me to see it, to gauge my opinion. Always, he is depressed afterwards because he hasn't shocked the pants off me. like a child. He is rich and successful, and good-looking, yes? But not very brilliant. Anyway, I don't shock easy."
"One more second, folks," Dev shouted out from the enclosed booth.
Soon, the lights dimmed. The projector whirred on behind us, and the screen was lit brightly white.
The film was silent. And no title card. A long shot of a very barren, half-desert scape, mountains in the distance. A shaky pan to reveal a small cabin, smoke rising blithely from its chimney, and a fenced corral connected on the right, with three or four horses languidly stepping about.
Behind us, the door to the projection booth squeaked open and clicked closed, and Dev slid into a nearby chair.
On the screen the same single opening shot now panned to the top of the hill behind the camera. Two men were there astride horses, staring down at the cabin, in silhouette with the sun behind them, an unconscious but very effective composition.
The film texture itself was extremely grainy color, and faded, though not from wear. Milos caught this too. He asked: "What are we watching, 16 or 35?"
"16," Dev answered.
"Then it must have been blown up from 8mm, huh?"
"Guess so."
There was a cut to the cabin front, and a woman, very big and beautiful, in a Mexican peasant's dress, came out with a big basket of wash. She started hanging up white clothes on a line. Cut back to horsemen in silhouette, then from their point of view a fast zoom in on the woman down below. The horsemen ride down from the hill. They ride up to the cabin and dismount. One could see their faces and costumes now: they were dark, like the girl, Mexicans probably, in get-ups of the typical bandido, sombreros, white cotton pajama-type outfits, and both had long black moustaches. The girl had a hint of a moustache too, I saw in a close-up where she registered her fright at the presence of the intruders. It was otherwise a beautiful face, though, a dark and haunting Latin face, like early Dolores Del Rio, and a voluptuous body below, very full hipped, round bottomed, with overflowing cocoa-colored tits under the low-cut peasant's blouse.
Well, very quickly they set to harassing her; feeling her up, rubbing their hands roughly around her ass. One held her from behind, while the other kissed her and put his hand down her front.
Their acting left much to be desired, as usual in these enterprises. And doubly so here, because it was silent and they figured, I guess, that even more elaborate, exaggerated expressions and gestures were necessary to tell us that the two men were vicious and lusty, and the girl was innocent and frightened.
They backed her up against a wall of the house and pawed at her, tearing her blouse down below two mountainous titties, with their fat rosettes circling long erect nipples. While one got his pants down, the other ripped off her skirt. The tatters dropped around her ankles and she was more or less naked. The camera zoomed in on her crotch thatch, which was dense to say the least; a real sporran of jet-black fur. They rubbed their hands over it, and one stuck some fingers inside. She was held by the shoulders while the trouserless one rubbed his long dark cock over her bush. He abraded the fat head of it among the black vegetation until it was quite rigid. The other held open her right leg, and his amigo stuffed his prick straight up the honey-pot. They fucked till he came, the girl changing from hysterical fear to hysterical passion.
There was a cut then to an interior. Ostensibly, I guess, we were inside the cabin. They were all three on a large double bed, all three naked. She was on her side, and the two bandidos were at either end. One she was sucking off, while the other was fucking her. The latter man, on his knees, was really whamming it into her. Her lush, tropical rosebush glistened with sweat, pussyjuice, and cum; her mouth too, was drooling the other cock's milky sperm. Both cocks in action were lovely and large. She was taking their advances well, genuinely swept up in it and finished with the earlier specious histrionics.
The man with his cock in her mouth held her long black hair in his hands and shook her head from side to side as she sucked, increasing the friction. The one plowing her pussy, meanwhile, grabbed at an ass-cheek and tried sticking a finger in her shit section.
Well, dear reader, up till this point it was pretty much your normal porno home-movie, with innocuous story, campy overacting, and sweaty menage A trois. Soon, though, came a turn to make it suddenly, as Dev had claimed, "a curio", a bleakly understated way of describing this film's denouement.
The mouth fucker started to come. He held her head and worked it back and forth as he shot vigorously down her throat. Come drooled out the sides of her mouth. His movements slowed gradually, until finally he slid the limp cock out. Then, the other one unplugged his prick, and masturbated it till he spent on her stomach and tits. He shook his cock, sticky dribble hanging from the head. He rubbed it dry on her hip. Then he moved back a bit, opened her leg more to expose fully the juicy black honey-pot, and-slammed a thick fist down on it! She retched in pain and shock. The head man took a handful of her black mane, leaned her head back, and whack, he punched her in the face. The girl squirmed, her nose started bleeding, and she was moaning and trying to scramble away from them and off the bed. No, her terror indicated, this was not in the script.
The s-m bit is hardly my number, but it can on occasion provide an entertaining spectacle. Masochists, beaten up, whipped, shit on, etcetera, are always aware of and delight in their plight. And when observing this kind of scene, if you've a mind to, one accepts the premise that the "victim" is in fact feeling far more pleasure than pain. Not so, in this case.
One can conjecture on the details. Weird bandido film crew. Innocent young hooker. All stoned out on Mex weed. Fun gets out of hand.
Some fun.
They beat her up some, all right, on the silver screen in glorious faded color, for a solid minute and more, using their fists. You could see she didn't know what the hell was going on from her expression.
She was sobbing and screaming, blood appearing at various spots on her face.
One of the bandits pulled out a knife from under the bed and he brandished it in front of the girl. She was terrified. And if that was acting then she was the greatest actress I had ever seen.
The man started taunting her with the knife. Then he grabbed hold of her bush and starting using the knife to cut off clumps of her pussy hair.
The other guy squeezed on her tits till they looked ready to explode.
"Now watch what happens!" Dev said excitedly. "You just won't believe this."
"What's going to happen?" I asked him, but he didn't have to answer. I already realized it as soon as I asked the question. "Oh Jesus," I mumbled.
I turned away just in time.
Soon, the lights came up. I turned wearily to Milos. He was silent, just staring at the blank screen.
Dev came out of the booth and sat down beside us. We were silent for a bit before he said: "What did you think?"
Milos looked up at him blankly. I looked up at him with a little more emotion, a touch of nausea visible on my face.
"Strictly legit. They killed her for good up there."
"Yeah. Right. That's why I wanted you to see it. For the expert's opinion."
Milos Keisler was, of course, above all, a brilliant craftsman, all-knowing in cinematic technique, particularly in matters of spectacular violence and gore. I remember one of his films, an historical adventure, that featured an overhead shot of a prisoner being pulled apart by four horses tied to his arms and legs. It never failed to jolt audiences who could swear it was the real thing. In fact, it was a very inspired use of a very old double exposure trick. So, in other words, Milos' nod at this porno flick's obvious veracity, was indeed the ultimate judgment.
"Have you ever seen anything like it?" Dev asked.
"Not I," I said weakly.
Milos said: "Back in Prague, at the archives, I saw some Nazi film, found in concentration camp, you know. Home movies the camp commander made of himself fucking three, four women prisoners at a time, then beating them to death. But not up to this. Not so startling, so sudden, and completely unexpected, both to audience and, I'm sure, to the young lady, the late star of the film." The late star. Milos had what one could call a dark sense of humor. "Yes, good film," he concluded. "Thank you for the entertainment, Dev. And the party. Should we be going, Helen?"
"I would think so." I turned to Dev. "Where-how did you get a film like this? I mean, are there prints made? Legal implications concerning the two men in it, you know, that sort of thing?"
"Well, I got it from someone who says he bought it in Tijuana. He made a few blow-ups from two reels I guess of 8mm, home movie stock. Beyond that its history is a mystery to me ... legal implications? Hm. I suppose if the authorities found the blessed filmmakers they'd stick them up against a wall for a firing squad to practice on. It is an interesting question. Really makes you wonder about the cats involved, about the girl and everything. That desert area's a pretty wild part of town, you know. I remember a friend of mine, I don't know if you know him, Bill Winston, was driving down there across the desert, and got stopped by robbers, bandits. They took his car, stripped him, shot him and left him for dead. A truck driver found him. Bill was going to a hunting lodge down there, I believe. He's given up his membership since."
"Oh, yes?" I said. "I think I'll stay in Hollywood from now on."
"Hm ... well, I don't want to keep you two.
Thanks for coming, anyway."
"Very good party, Dev," I said. "Thanks for asking me." I kissed him on the cheek.
"Yeah, see you, Dev."
"Good night you two. I won't walk you to the door. I've got to rewind the film. Take care."
"Say good night to Julie for me. Where is she?"
"Sound asleep, baby. Pretty whacked out tonight."
FIVE
Milos' car was parked on the street about two houses away. It was a very small two-seater sports car, crimson-colored, quite aged or "classic" depending on your point of view. I only describe it now as it soon becomes the scene of an intimate bout between myself and the sexy Czech director.
"Very nice," I said of the vehicle when we reached it, just making conversation.
"You like it? You know cars?" he asked.
"Not really-what is it, an MG?"
"Austin-Healy, 1955, absolutely priceless-to me, anyway. You don't know what a machine like this means to a young lad like myself, brought up strictly Communist."
"Oh, that's right, isn't it." We got into the car. "How did you get out, anyway? Escape?" I asked, as he pulled the car quickly out and down the quiet street of steep lawns and palatial abodes, all but one lightless in the early morning.
"My escape from 'behind the Iron Curtain,' as Americans used to say?"
"Mm-hmm. What was it, about five years ago?"
"Ah, six years ago. My escape is not very interesting story. Not adventurous. Not very cinematic. I was at the Venice Film Festival with my film, my first and my country's 'official entry.'
An American producer, the late, unlamented Mr. Harvey Swindo, liked the film very much. He signed me to a contract, drove me to the airport, and put me on a plane to Los Angeles with a note from him explaining why I had no visa and $2000 cash, both to be given to a certain immigration officer-his brother-in-law, I believe the fellow was."
"You got through all right?"
"Yes, and with only giving the immigration officer $1000. I kept one thou for me!"
We drove on through the night.
I said to him: "Aren't you going to ask me where I live?"
"Ah, yes ... "
"That is supposed to be the destination, you know."
"I thought we were allowing some time for discussion of the upcoming project-the one you have agreed to write for me."
"Oh," I said, chuckling, "is that still on?"
"But of course. You still do not think I am serious?"
"Well, in fact, it just seemed like a very extravagant come-on. like a variation on the one they used to pull on starlets-'I'll give you a part in my next picture, baby'-that sort of thing. Just a way of getting into my pants."
"Do I look like that sort of person, Helen? Now, really." The car swerved up on the curb for an insane instant.
"Keep your eyes on the road, Milos! I can check you out in profile just as well ... No, no on second thought, you're not that sort of person, are you?"
He laughed, flashed his eyes at me, and turned back to the road ahead. "You are wrong. I am just that sort of person," he said, laughing quietly.
"In that case, it's home James. I'm on Longview Road, at the foot of the hill. Know it?"
"Yah," he said brokenly. "You tell me if I go wrong."
We reached my house and stopped on the street. "Hey, you have no man at home, or do you."
"No. Not tonight."
"Then maybe I come in with you, perhaps?"
"Not tonight. My kids are there. They get up early for school."
"Yes, I figured something, or you would have invited me."
"Quite an ego you have," I said.
Milos stepped on the gas.
"Hey!"
"Calm yourself," he said, wagging a hand at me. "I just want to show you a little spot of mine, up the hill. I used to live near here, when I first came to town."
"I'm game, Milos, but remember it's getting close to 3 a.m."
"The night is young then, no?"
Toward the peak of the hill he drove, where the woods grew thicker. At a spot where picnic tables were set up, he pulled off the road and in fifty yards on the grass clearing. He cut the motor. He leaned towards me (I was hardly very far away in the cramped two-seater), and kissed me on the lips. It was a long, sensual kiss, his tongue exploring my throat.
"You are a very sexy woman. Very erotic." He slid back to unclip the corners of the cloth top and fold it down behind us.
Los Angeles is not exactly suitable atmospherically for star-gazing, but it was unusually clear this night, and the blue-black sky fairly shone with its cosmic splendor.
Milos and I kissed some more. He reached over to his glove compartment and got out a fat grass joint and a lighter.
"This is very good stuff. The best," he whispered, nuzzling my ear. He lit it and puffed deeply. The joint crackled to his inhalation. He closed his mouth and leaned his head back to view the sky. His hand held the grass out to me. I took it and hit a full toke. I held it down deep in my lungs. I let it out slowly, and then took another fill. I handed it to him. He pulled a long hard drag that made the joint crackle loudly and billow the heavy-smelling smoke. On my next hit I felt fully the tingling swirl in my head. It filtered down to my groin. Very good stuff, all right.
We smoked another one. Milos started kissing my neck and down the front of my dress. The low neck, as I have mentioned, left my lovely titties highly exposed. Milos kissed them, and pushed his tongue between the cleavage and licked down at the soft, soft flesh. I squeezed his cock outside the blue jeans he wore.
He slid one side of my dress down off my shoulder. The dress slipped and my left boob lay there, the long red nipple erect and enlarging to the touch of the cool night air. He bent over to it and took the juicy button and sucked on it. I swooned. All pleasurable feelings were, of course, increased considerably by the weed we smoked.
My groin tingled. I rubbed my hand over my crotch. The thick red patch down there, bristling against the knit dress, seemed positively alive. like a little furry animal prowling above my cunt. like a little pussycat, all red hair, so soft, so warm to the touch, to Milos' touch as he wandered a hand up my dress, between my opened thighs to the heated jungle of tangled vegetation. He enmeshed his fingers in the tightly-woven pussy-hair. He rubbed over my mount, maddeningly. Then two fingers ventured further into the gooey recesses of my bubbling cunt. Oh God, it felt good, the first touch there on my cunt lips all damp and excited. I flexed my big cunt open and squeezed tight on the two thin fingers. They moved within me, in close circles. It felt good all right.
He continued sucking my tits (both wide boobs exposed now), and I, meanwhile, rubbed his cock tight and hard under the skin-tight jeans. They were so close fitting, in fact, that one could discern clearly the complete outline of his prick bulge beneath, and could, as I did, get a firm wieldy hold of the tool and jerk it back and forth effectively; with a little more trouser material for frontal expansion I could have fucked him with the pants on. Even now, and I knew it couldn't have been fully erect in those enclosed circumstances, it hung along his leg a good distance. Below, he was fiddling wildly with my cunt lips and my stiff clitty. He very firmly rolled his longest finger against the soft erect strip of fem flesh.
"Oh, rub my clit, Milos ... and suck my tits, suck 'em, boy!" The nipples were stuck out unbelievably. I felt little goose bumps popping up on the rosettes on their base. "Move that hand," I coached him. "My pussy, move your fingers faster, my pussy's soaking wet ... I'm drooling, my cunt juice, I can feel it dripping all over those fingers of yours! Oh Milos, Milos, finger my clit more, my hard pussy clit ... "
He jerked off my juicy pussy for a couple of minutes. Then I made a throaty request: "Takeout your cock, baby ... take it out for mama to see what kind of big cock you've got under those tight crotched jeans of yours ... oh, I want to see it, let me see it baby ... "
With amazing dexterity, he managed to stay sucking my titties and massaging my cunt, while unbuckling and lowering his pants. For a second he had to disconnect and he pulled his hand out of my jelly box. He pulled down the white athletic supporter he was wearing, and in the vague light of the moon and the stars, I saw his thick Czech cock, uncircumcised and at its pointy head wet with milky dew. I rubbed my hand all over it. I bent over to kiss it and take it in my mouth. I tongued the fat head. I slipped it all far into my mouth and sucked it hard. The cock tasted salty but delicious. It was no good this way, though. The sports car's stick shift set-up really interfered with my blowjob. As I raised back up in my seat, as consolation on the way, I rubbed the soft flesh of my left tit over his prick, touching the long nipple to his cockhead. It stiffened sharply at this.
Milos said: "There's only one way, you know, if we want to stay in the car. And I don't have any blanket, so we better stay in the car; I don't want any creeping bugs biting my balls. Okay? Come on, sit forward."
I saw what he wanted to do. I held the windshield for balance, and sat up. Milos climbed over into my bucket and got his pants and jock off one leg, while I stayed standing. I looked about before me, at the dead-green woods, and to the left at the unlit road.
Milos' hands held my plump buttocks. They must have felt fantastic under the knit dress, all coolly damp. He massaged the twin cheeks.
I looked down over my shoulder, and saw that my ass-cheeks were indeed having their effect, for his garden-hose-like uncircumcized cock was standing at strict attention below me. It was beautiful, that stiff, sword-point cock-o-roony, no one touching it yet quite erect and ready for action.
Milos was playing little games with my fanny: rolling the twin moons, a cheek in each hand, then in counterpoint, one clockwise one counterclockwise. After every three or four revolutions he would lift the two widely apart and this was absolutely delicious to me. I felt my little round ass-hole stick out like a stage star bowing before opening curtains. His hands dropped down and out to my hemline, and he lifted my gown up to my thighs and over my wide hips. My big tushy was out in the air now.
"Hold your dress up," he muttered intently.
I did so. I held the dress in my hands up clear above my ass, and leaned over the windshield; the perfect position for pissing in a Turkish toilet. He grazed his hand over my bare ass. He spread the cheeks.
"Bend over more," he commanded.
I bent. He held the cheeks far apart, felt around between, and finally inserted a finger up my back door. I squirmed a bit. My leg moved and I felt it brush against the man's straining prick. I kept it there, as reassurance. He worked his finger back and forth in the tender hole. Then he plucked it out and bent under my ass. He stuck his face in and licked at my muff hair, slobbering all over the thick curly growth. He strained his tongue out to the very tip of my cunt. My leg touched his cock experimentally. Yes, it was as stiff and long as it was going to be (but that was stiff and long enough for me, at that late hour of the night, anyway).
"Oh, oh, Helen," Milos said in delicate tones. "Such a lovely full body. All woman, Helen ... such a round, soft fanny ... so much hair from your cunt and around your ass-hole, beautiful ... I've got to fuck you good, you deserve only the best ... below your cunt, I mean between your cunt and your shithole it smells divine, superb, some incredible natural pussy perfume you have-Oh, I must fuck your fat pussy! Sit, sit, sit!"
I came down on the elevated prick. I rubbed it all about on my ass-hole. I felt down between my legs for it, held it at the base and aimed it for the target, centering it between my wet pussy lips, and finally in the old fuck-hole. The cock came fully to life now, gobbling its way up my cunt. I held up my gown, and settled down hard, letting the prick fill me up good, stretch, reaching for my womb.
"Ooooh, good cock, Milos!" I moaned idiotically.
"Ahh, roll it," Milos countered. "Roll your big fanny on it, come on, roll it round on my cock, my great cock, Helen baby!"
The cock inside me squirmed, drooled, stretched, spit. It contracted and expanded to my rough riding. I draped my dress ends over the windshield that I held tightly to and maneuvered from. I shook my fucking ass!
That Czech dude's cock felt so great. I was stoned out and my cunt was burning with passion, his cock a hose of warm water in the flaming pits of my pussy. I am flying atop wave after wave after wave of hot ecstasy. I come over and over. I slam my bottom down, up to the tip of his pointy cock, then down it smacks its way home again covering up the hot tool, forcing it again up my bubbling cunt.
I'm fucking like a wild woman, my best fuck In weeks, and I'm coming again, and as if for an eternity, and all over an intense pleasure. And why? Because he is porking me with a well-sized instrument, his cum-soaked East European cock going up my fuck-hole faster and faster, and because on two joints I'm stoned out fabulously, not on simple grass this, but cut, I learn later, spiked with coke and an out-of-circ hallucinogen called stp.
I'm hollering like a lunatic, at the top of my voice, and breathing in bursts: "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me baby, keep it up hard, oh, oh, oh, your cock, your prick, your fat fat prick, I love it, keep it inside me, keep it up my safe warm pussy, please, please, oh faster, doll, baby, fuck, fuck, fuck my cunt, my cunt, it's On fire, on fire, my red, burning red pussy bush all on fire-fuck, come, come, come!"
He lunged his sharp prick in deeper than ever, arched his pelvis up and grabbed me by the hips. I felt the hot bolt of cum blast into me as I was also coming for the third or fourth time ...
I shivered, with the last ripple of pleasure floating off.
We breathed heavily. I squirmed about to stretch my legs and to lay more comfortably in his arms. He could not hold me for more than a moment, though, so out of breath was he. I just lay there in his lap, nuzzling his ear.
"You're an incredible piece of ass," he could manage to say, some two or three minutes later. "Just incredible, Helen. You've got a real genius of a pussy there. I'm all out, all knocked out, baby ... wow."
"You're pretty good yourself."
"No, no contest in comparison. I thought we were going to take off for the moon there for awhile."
I sighed a laugh and embraced him, holding his face against my breasts.
"Do you think," I said shortly, "that you'll be up to driving me home now?"
He nodded wearily.
"But first," he said, "let us have one more of those magnificent joints."
He leaned over me and got out a lighter and a plump yellow-papered joint. It crackled sonorously. Presently, he handed it to me, and turned to try pulling his pants up over his shoe. He stopped and touched my knee.
"Did you hear that?" he queried.
"What?" I said.
"Car coming from up the hill."
"I don't hear anything," I said, and took a long pull on the dope. I blew it out slowly and handed the joint to Milos.
He listened intently before taking it. As he was inhaling, a car light flashed across us in shattered shafts through the trees that lined the road further up.
"I hope we haven't taken anyone's special love-nest here," I wondered aloud.
Milos said: "No, no look-it's a police car." He threw the lighted joint away.
You could just barely see the red dome on the car's top. It stopped on the road, even with us fifty yards away. The occupants did nothing for a minute (though it seemed much longer to us), apparently staring at our parked car.
"What's the big deal?" I asked. "They won't bother us. We haven't done anything."
"The grass. If these cops decide to play games and search the car; I've got half a pound in the trunk ... shit, shit they're getting out."
In the silent night the metal creak of a door opening resounded. One cop came around to the driver's side. We heard voices. They sounded to us as muffled whispers.
The outside cop now shined a bright flashlight over at us.
"Okay there," he shouted in a deep, toneless voice. "Police. I'm coming over." He tramped our way across the field.
Milos tried to tug his pants, but they were caught tightly on his left shoe.
"Aw shit," he whimpered, "they're caught."
The cop reached us and lit our faces with the flash.
"What's the trouble here?" he said.
Milos smiled at him, with teeth for once. "Oh nothing, Officer. We, uh, we just stop to see the view. To, uh, examine the nature."
"You a foreigner (whiff-whiff)? What's that smell, huh? You been smoking marijuana, fella? What about it, lady?"
"No. What? No. Not at all," said I, very suspiciously, I'm sure, if you've never been approached by a cop, and this a fat cop, while you were stoned, then you don't know what paranoia is. I was feeling super-panicky when I needed to act rational and innocent. I just could concentrate on nothing else but the thought of the real and full-tilt peril we were in if the portly policeman decided to make a (I would imagine illegal) search of the car.
The cop said: "I smell marijuana, friends. You're acting mighty suspicious, don't you think? You better give me your driver's license and get out of the car. And you show me some identification too, lady. If you please."
Milos did nothing, looking quietly frantic.
"What's a'matter there, you got your license? Hm? Registration too, I want to see. What are you doing there?" He tilted the beam and illuminated Milos' naked crotch. "Jesus, is that your cock I see there, buddy? This could be a case of indecent exposure. Hey, and what about you, dollie?" he said, lowering the torch to check my bod. I had my dress modestly down by that time, but my tits were hanging well out, all but the nipples, so low on my shoulders were the dress straps. The nipples, to digress, were secretly fully erect from fear.
He moved the light up and down my cleavage.
"Quite a pair of knockers you've got there, lady. Would you mind very much if I slipped one of them out, sort of weighed it in my hand for a moment. You wouldn't mind, would you?"
He didn't wait for an answer, but put his free hand to the inflated flesh of my tits. His fingers quickly moved to the tip and pried out a breast from the neckline. He rubbed a fat thumb over my nipple.
"Hey, stiff nipples here. I must turn you on, huh? Hey, wait till you get a look at this cock of mine, it's a real horse number. Come on, get out of the car, doll. You-wop," he said, turning the light up to Milos. "You wait here inside. Give me your car keys."
Milos touched the keys in the ignition. I saw his hand consider turning it. So did the cop.
"Hold it there, wop. Get your hands up." The cop suddenly had his gun out. He leaned over and took the keys with his flash hand. "You try any funny business and you'll find yourself out of the running, if you follow. Yeah? Come on, doll, get out of the car."
"You dirty, fucking cop!" Milos said.
"I'll remember you said that," the dirty, fucking cop said.
"Stay here, Helen. Fuck this fat man with gun."
"Okay, wop, let's get tough." The cop started to move from my side.
"No wait!" I entreated, touching his sleeve. "If I go with you will you leave us alone then? Let us go?"
"Sure, sure. I just-my partner and I just want to talk to you for a moment, that's all."
"Then you'll give us back the keys to the car."
"Sure, sure."
"Okay. Milos, stay cool. Stay here, I'll be right back. Right? Otherwise, he'll maybe try and take us in, or make us wait while he searches the car," I said the last three words with a subtle but distinct emphasis, so he could comprehend in his clouded consciousness the situation as it stood. I concluded, as cagily as I could manage: "Even though he won't find anything, but it'll tie us up, right?"
The cop apparently (and of course as we know, rightly) figured we had been smoking dope, and odds were we had more on us. This gave him his edge, his passport into extra-legal activities. It was probably money he and his pal generally went for in these shake-downs, but tonight the horny bastard seemed to be making no bones about the fact he wanted something a little warmer and hairier than legal tender. Yes, friends, he wanted your humble narrator's humble twat.
I got out of the car and stood before him.
He smiled broadly at me. A real goon this was. He turned to Milos.
"Okay, buster, you stay right here in your car, and we'll be back in a couple of minutes. Come on, doll, let's go see Tony. You'll like Tony-" He laughed. "His cock's as big as mine."
We walked to within twenty yards of the car, and then he told me to stop.
"Whaddaya got on under that dress?"
I stared at him coldly. "Nothing," I said.
"That's good. Then take it off."
I stared.
"Come on, I'll help you." He grabbed my gown and lifted it to my hips. "Come on, take it off."
I had to pull the garment up over my head. When I just had it up to my shoulders, he turned the flashlight on my bush.
"Oh shit," he cooed, "a red pussy. Aw, baby.. .here, give me that." He took the black gown and stuffed it under his arm. "Come on, walk."
We resumed our walk to the patrol car. He fell behind, and turned the flashlight on me again. "Keep walking. I want to see how your ass moves. Oh yeah, round ripe ass you got baby. Look at it gyrate as you walk. Shoot, like machinery in that fanny."
We reached the car. His partner was behind the steering wheel, smoking a cigarette. The fat cop pushed me up to the driver's open window. Inside, he turned and looked at me with disdain.
Fatty said: "Look what I've got for us. A present. A gift to, do with whatever the hell we please. Ain't that sweet?"
"She's got nice tits."
"That ain't all she's got-"
"Shine the flash on her pussy," the driver suggested.
"Yeah, wait'll you get a load of that." He moved alongside me and played the light beam over my bush.
"Hey, red is it?"
"Sure is. He can touch it, can't he, lady? Ha! Ha!"
The driver stuck his hand out, the lit cigarette held between two fingers, and stroked up on my muff. "Soft pussy ... very nice, lady."
"Thanks Officer," I said, "you've made my day."
"Oh, smart-ass are you." He arched his hand on my pussy so that the cigarette touched the hairs and burned several in the one instant. They crinkled and disintegrated. I lurched back.
"It's okay, baby," the other one said, stepping close behind. "No rough stuff, Tony, she's gonna be a good girl, a good cunt, aren't you? You know, Tony, she was over there in that little car there, fucking her ass off with some wop. Did he ass fuck you, doll, the little faggot with his long hair? Huh?
Did he stick it up your dirt track, your little shithole? Huh."
"No."
"Well, where'd he stick it? Hm?" I said nothing.
"Answer me!" He shoved me back towards the car. The driver reached his arm out and took a handful of my thick tuft.
"He asked you where did the faggot stick his cock in you!" the driver said ominously, seriously.
"He stuck it in my cunt," I finally answered.
"Good." Fatty again. "That's right, you answer our questions satisfactorily and everything'll be fine. Now tell me, what do you think about sucking cocks?"
"I love sucking cocks. Is that what you want me to say?"
"Exactly. Come on, get in the back seat." He patted my bare ass and opened the door for me. I bent to climb in, and he shoved a quick hand between my legs to my cunt. He pinched me there. I moved on in to the middle of the seat. He came in after me.
"Hey," the driver said to me, "give me your hand."
I reluctantly showed him one. He took my wrist and guided my hand to his lap. His prick was hanging out of his pants, wet and half-erect. Perhaps he had been jerking off for a while, I don't know. His cock was coated with sperm, though. He led my hand to it, and I held it hard.
"You like my cock, Red, you like Tony's fat cock? I'm gonna stick that up your twat tonight. I bet you can't wait for that. I bet your pussy's drooling wet right now, huh? Answer me!"
"Yes."
"Yes what?"
"I can't wait for you to put your prick up my twat. My pussy's soaking." As a matter-of-fact it was, what with his cock in my hand, and the other one now with his head between my legs and sticking his tongue in my ass-hole and licking the fur surrounding it. That one, the fat one, took his pants down. His cock was stuck out. It was short and squat. He pulled me from the driver, down roughly to force feed the prick into my mouth. I fit it all in and sucked on it.
I heard the driver open his door and get out.
He came around and got in back with us. From the corner of my eye, I saw him start jerking his dong as he watched me suck-off his partner.
The fat cock finally shot its load, not much of it considering the good suck I'd given him. He edged out of the car and his partner climbed over him. This one, Tony, wagged his prick at me, and slapped it against my thigh. "
"You like it baby, nice cock, right?"
"Yeah, real nice cock," I answered (knowing he'd get rough if I didn't).
"Let's see how wet your pussy is ... " He stuck two fingers in my cunt. "Ooh, yeah, you're hot, aren't ya? Huh? Aren't ya?! "
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm hot. I want you to fuck me. I want you to eat my pussy out good."
"Okay, just a little. A little head for starters."
He spread my cunt lips and plunged in his tongue, breathing heavily.
When he had licked me till my cunt juices were really dripping, he changed position and got on top of me.
"Stick it in, Red. Stick it in for me."
I took his stiff rod and slid it up my twat. It fit well, but he was a bad fucker. In-out, in-out he worked it till he came.
The fat one watched us, leaning through the door window. "Go Tony! Shoot it to her. Ha, ha, yeah." He moved back from the window.
As Tony the Cop rubbed his last drop into me, the fat one let out a sharp "Ugh." and fell against the closed door, the upper half of his torso falling across the open window. "My head," he groaned miserably, rapidly falling unconscious.
"What the fuck!" Tony shouted, rolling off of me.
The fat cop was pushed aside from the window. He hit the ground with a solid thud.
Stepping into his place now before the back door, was his assailant, none other than Milos Keisler, wiry movie director, in one hand holding the fat cop's revolver and in the other what looked like a thick tree limb. He had snuck behind Fatty and conked him!
Milos dropped the plant life and held out the gun. Tony froze.
"I'm going to kill you," Milos growled. "You fucking shithead fascist pig! Helen, get out of the car."
I looked for my gown. The bastard cop must have dropped it on the ground somewhere outside. I scurried out the opposite back door, naked. I came around the other side.
"Get the car key out of his pants," Milos said. I did. But the fat man was starting to come around as I searched him.
Milos opened the car's back door.
"You won't shoot," Tony Cop said. "Will you, wop?! " He made a quick move to kick out at Milos. Milos shot the gun. "Ahhh! No, don't. Don't shoot!"
"I'm going to shoot your cock off, you shit."
"No, don't, please!"
"Mil," I whispered urgently, "this fat one's coming to." He was rolled on one shoulder, rubbing the back of his head.
"Get over to the car!" Milos shouted at me.
I ran for it. I heard him fire the gun twice (but couldn't believe he would actually shoot them, and it turned out he didn't-only scare shots), following which he ran after me and leapt into the car.
"The key, the key," he squealed madly. I gave it to him and he started the ignition. The cops were running at us. Milos threw the gun away off in the opposite direction, and pulled the car out. He had to swerve to avoid hitting them. They turned and ran back for their car.
We were on the road and going down when we heard their car start up. Very shortly it was close behind, coming up fast. Milos shifted gears and shot ahead. The cop car increased speed.
We came to a sharp bend and rubber burned and screamed. Milos broke out of the turn, but the police skidded all over the place.
There were lights up ahead, and we had to be gone before they could make out our license plates (if they didn't have the numbers already). We were safe. The police car vanished in the distance of the rear-view mirror.
We didn't speak, as Milos skillfully sped the auto down dim suburban roads. Finally, we reached my house.
I said: "Maybe you should come in. You can hide the car in the garage, out of sight."
"No, no, I want to go home and throw up. I'll call you."
I kissed him. "Christ, Milos, what an experience."
"I wish I had a blanket or something to give you for your run into the house."
We eyed my nakedness. "Yes, well, no matter," I said. "The door's unlocked, I hope, for instant entry."
"I'll wait here for a minute, to be sure you get in safe."
"Right. See you, then."
He patted my rosebush. "Good night, Helen."
I got out of the car and ran naked across my front lawn and around to the side door. It was unlocked, and I scurried inside and upstairs.
No one was up. It was black and utterly silent in the house.
I went into my bathroom and sat on the bathtub.
I simply sat there, soundless but for deep breathing, for several minutes. Finally I felt composed enough to move onto the toilet and took a good long piss. I flushed the toilet, and, turning on the sink taps, splashed my face.
In my bedroom I put a light on.
I was still fairly breathless and out of sorts, and it took several minutes of standing about in the room, seeking reassurance in the old familiar setting, before I could get into bed and turn out the light.
Another long night done, indeed.
SIX
She entered the bedroom at noon, bearing gifts: the sultry maid, Dora, that is, with a tall, Bloody Mary. She was twenty, black, and cute as a button but with a very sexy undertone. She looked, to put it epigrammatically, like a high school cheerleader who sucks cock.
Dora brought out the lez instincts in me. I mean to say, I'm always in a more or less sex-conscious mood, but my femininity irks at the thought of and is less adaptable to, the presence of a male when I first get up in the morning, all disheveled and odoriferous. It would bug me something awful on those times when the man I was sleeping with woke before me. Generally, though, I was able through a highly adept internal alarm clock, to be up first and in to the bathroom for a quick splash and straighten, and back into bed in time for the various guys to open eyes and stick me for my first fuck of the morning.
At any rate, Dora was pleasantly erotic as she stood over me this day at noon. She went about picking up, separating the curtains and opening the window, as I finished the drink.
"All done," I said, and she took the glass and put it on the end table.
"Feeling better now, Miss Brady?"
"Yes. A little. Still feels a bit like a building's been built on my head," I said.
"Have a good time last night, ma'am?"
"Not bad. A little strange in spots, but not bad."
She nodded and grinned perfect pearly teeth at me. "And how many times you get laid last night, Miss Brady? Ha, ha."
"How many times? Let me see ... my memory's a little foggy, three or four times, I guess-not all of them voluntary."
"Huh? Not voluntary, what you mean, you was raped? You? I wouldn't figure you'd give no rapist a chance to attack before you'd already asked him to."
"Very funny, Dora."
She stood there, grinning sassily.
"But, as a matter-of-fact, I was raped last night, by two men. Policemen, if you must know."
"Police?! Well, what hap-how'd it happen?! "
"Let's forget it for now, Dora. You can read about it in my memoirs."
"Okay, if that's how you're gonna be ... you gonna stay in bed all day," she teased.
"I suppose not," I sighed.
"Come on now, I got to make this bed."
She pulled the sheets down off me and left me in my pink nakedness, red bush, bobbing tits and all. She'd seen me before, but my naked bod always seemed to turn her on somewhat. I saw her gaze at my scarlet fleece, and gently she touched her upper lip with her tongue. I couldn't keep from smiling at her unconscious sign of admiration.
I yawned and stretched my arms out. I stretched my legs out and swept a hand up my thigh to crotch, stopping at my bush and leaving it there.
"Shee-it, Miss Brady, I sure know why they all want to get their cocks inside you."
I laughed. Sliding over in bed, I swung my legs down to the floor and stretched again. Sparrows or robins or something were chirping their gossip in the tree that swayed softly before the open window to my right.
"Did my kids get off to school all right?"
"Well, yes ma'am. Um, David, though, he was ... a little upset this morning."
"Upset? What do you mean, stomach upset?"
"No Ma'am. He was mad 'cause he says he and his sister don't see you hardly at all lately."
"Yes, well, unavoidable, Dora. I'll be here with them tonight, anyway. Far as I can see."
"Okay, Miss Brady. But you know, if you don't mind me throwing in my two cents, I agree with him. I think you ought to be a bit more ... conscientious as a mother. You goin' out most every night, gettin' yourself fucked by everybody in town-"
"Oh now Dora, that's a bit hyperbolic, don't you think?"
"Hyper-what you say?"
"-Bolic. Exaggerated."
"No sir. That ain't no exaggeration at all," she rejoined. "I bet that there ain't one cock in this city that's capable of getting stiff that hasn't met you-either up your shit hole, in your twat, under your arms, between your tits, or up your nose!"
"Dora, lower your voice. There's no need to scream. I do have a headache, if you recall."
She put her hands on her hips and bent over towards me. "Well just to finish my point," she whispered, "if you ain't out sittin' on fat pricks, you're locked in your study writing some godawful movie, and those children ain't even sure you still live here. They might as well be with their father."
"That rat prick?"
"And look at the way you talk. He's still their father whether you're married to him or not. Imagine if they heard you saying something like that about him, good shit, Miss Brady!"
"All right, all right, young Dora, you've made your point," I nodded in exhausted acquiescence. "I'll try and be a good little mother." I reached out for her hand and pulled her onto my bare lap. "I'll bounce them on my knee like this-" I spread my legs and pumped one, and her round little bottom in its sheer blue uniform slid snugly over my crotch. She bounced up and down on my mound, giggling. "And I'll tell them bedtime stories," I continued. "And I'll check that they washed behind the ears-" I hooked a finger behind her black ear. She let out a tickled laugh, and cupped one of my large titties, as if to push away but really, I think, for the sheer pleasure of feeling the buoyancy of my boobs. I caught the hand and rubbed it roughly against the erect nipple. She laughed gaily.
"You mean you also swing lezy, Miss Brady, honey?"
"I'm easy, Dora. Just strictly easy."
"Yeah, sugar. Makin' me hot and sticky between the legs, you white trash."
"No, now," I said, wagging a finger. "Is that any way to speak to your employer-how long have you been working here?"
"One week, tomorrow."
"Is that any way to speak to your employer of one solid week counting tomorrow?"
"Well, hon, for that matter, is this any way to do-sittin' on your employer's pussy and holding her tits?"
"I'm sure it's done all the time."
"Sure, if the employer's a man."
"Have you ever had a man employer?" I inquired.
"Oh, yeah. And he used to want me to suck his cock every morning when I brought him his coffee and while he read the newspaper."
"White guy?" I asked. "Sure, he was white."
"Which do you prefer, by the way, white pricks or black pricks?"
"like 'em every color. like they say, it's all meat for the fire."
"But, uh, Dora, it doesn't always have to be cock meat to light your fire, does it?"
"To be perfectly truthful," she said, "I ain't never really gone no other route."
"Honestly? You surprise me," I mused sarcastically. "You seem so worldly somehow, for your twenty years."
"Yeah, well, I just kind of never got around to it with a chick," she said.
I pouted my lips at her, and studied her figure deciding finally if it was worth the effort so soon upon waking. "Well, you know what they say, no time like the present ... "
"What you thinking of, sugar?"
"Dora," I said, moving her off my lap, "go into my bathroom and run me a bath ... go ahead."
"Hm, now? Okay, ma'am," she said, raising her eyebrows and exiting as requested.
I stood up and stepped over to the window to get a better look at nature beyond the open window. There was a bird's nest in a crook of the tree just outside. The little mother was squatting inside it peaceably. I looked beyond at my grounds, all two and a half acres of it. To the right some distance, two-hundred yards or so, I could see over my neighbor's wall to their swimming pool. Three or four heads were vaguely visible in the clear blue water. My two kids generally spent a good part of every spring and summer over there with their kids. I used to be invited over myself until the wife caught me one afternoon with her husband. I'm very sloppy that way. No discretion at all in these matters. Me and the hubby did, later, finally get to make an uninterrupted touchdown, and we've fucked now and again since then. Anyway, the day after her intrusion upon us, and her hysterical scolding of her spouse and yours truly, she called to say that pool privileges, she had reconsidered were still open for my kids. "We mustn't punish the children for the sins of the parent," she intoned haughtily and hung up.
I am continually going around seducing other women's husbands and then getting caught, as they say, in flagrante dilecto, or in plain English, caught with my pants down.
It was my dear husband who did the catching on one occasion, and soon after came the divorce. But that's another story.
Dora came back after a couple of minutes.
"Your bath is ready, Miss Brady." She had a note of forced formality in her voice. "Will that be all, Miss?"
I passed her and went into the bathroom. "No, that won't be all," I called back, assuming the same tone of formality, a voice like a constipated Duchess. "I wish you to scrub my back, please, while I bathe."
She stood in the bedroom and stared at me as I stepped into the tub. Then she chuckled and came in.
The bath water was a refreshing temperature. I dunked my whole body under for several seconds, and came up spritzing and shaking my hair. Dora took a step back to avoid getting splashed.
"Get over here," I said. "Sit here and scrub my back. Here ... here's the soap and the scrub brush."
She sat on the edge of the tub and took the cleansing utensils. I turned my back towards her. She dunked the soap bar in the water and then rubbed it up and down my back. It foamed up and she scrubbed with the brush.
"Ooh," I cooed, "the water feels so tingly in my pussy. Keep scrubbing."
I played my hands through the water and splashed a bit. Some water flew up on her dress. I splashed more up on her.
"Hey, hey, hey there, you're gettin' me wet, Miss Brady."
"Well now, Dora," I said, "that's no more than you're doing to me, getting me all wet between the legs, if you know what I mean."
"Are we back to that, are we?"
"We never left it." I backhanded a good pint of water at her.
"Aw shit now," she exclaimed, standing up. "What d'you go and do that for, Miss Brady? Now you've got me pissed off at you, you know that?! "
"Listen Dora dear, you didn't finish giving me my bath. Now, so we won't get your uniform any wetter and since it's kind of wet right now, you just slip it right off, let it dry over there on the hamper, and you come on and get in the tub and scrub me up."
"Sheesh," she said, rubbing her dress dry, "you a real joker, ain't you."
"Come on, come on, get undressed."
She gaped at me in indignation, only for effect, though; a few moments later she was unzipping her blue uniform. Her bra and panties were conventional white, but that set off very nicely against her ebony skin. I say conventional in color, but beyond that both items proved to be near-transparent. Her tiny nipples and the black fur at her crotch were clearly discernible. She stood over me in her underwear and looked down suspiciously. I pinched my nose at her and submerged. I came up blowing water out of my mouth crazily. She laughed.
"Jeez, you are somethin' else," she said, and unclasped her bra and threw it over on the hamper. She had tight little titties. Small but perky and pointing up. The panties slipped off easily. Kinky, pitch-black muff. She turned to toss the underpants, and I got a good shot of her perfect fanny. She was petite body-wise, and looked, naked, younger than she was, like a teenybopper, with a real cute teenybopper ass, round and taut as a juicy orange.
I kicked back to one end of the tub to give her room.
"Here I come, sugar," she said with a big grin. "Hold on."
"Wait now," I requested, holding a hand out to her, and touching her bush. "Open up." She parted her legs. I pushed two fingers up her small cunt. She was soaking. I turned my fingers in her. She sucked in her breath and I knew she enjoyed it. Plucking the fingers back out, I passed them under my nose and smelled, then tasted her sticky cunt juice. "Okay, get in," I said.
She got in. We faced each other in the tub. Her legs were under her; mine were stretched out.
"Let your legs out," I coached. "Lay one over mine, one under."
"Uh-huh," she said, "you're the pro at this stuff."
We locked legs and pulled towards each other till our pussies touched. We both shivered with delight at this contact. The cool water flowed in and out of our open cunts.
"Ooh sugar, this is fucking beautiful. Miss Brady you're some out of sight employer."
We rubbed our bushes together in slow rhythmic circles producing, in the water, a silky friction as our respective curly pussy hair intertwined. I embraced her and kissed her on the mouth. We rubbed and rolled, and kissed. Dora experienced an intense spasm of pleasure and gripped my arms, and locked her cunt tighter into mine. She positively clamped the jaws of her cunt lips on me.
"Coming?" I asked.
She only raised her head in answer, her eyes closed tight. She moved her pelvis in circles, grinding her cunt in harder and harder. I lay back in the water, content to let her do the work. I wasn't carried away with rapture the way she seemed to be, but it was a highly enjoyable sensation.
"You sure you've never swung with another chick, Dora?"
"I'm sure," she breathed. "I guess I didn't know what I was missin.'"
I chuckled, and took her nipples in a finger and thumb of each hand. They were brown-red and hard. She snorted, and smiled deeply at me. She got the soap, floating beside us, and proceeded to suds up my tits.
We played this way, like little girls, for some time.
I let out some of the water, and had her put her feet up on the sides of the tub, so that her cunt stuck up out of the water. I put my hand in. Her cunt inside was tingly, soft and slippery as silk. The flesh was dark pink. I took the bar of soap and rubbed it on her mound till it produced a white foam. This looked exceedingly exciting: her black body, with legs spread, cunt raised up, but with white foam for pussy hair. I was only sorry it didn't grow that color naturally, it looked so sexy.
"Let's give you one of Mrs. Brady's home-made douche jobs, hey?" I suggested.
"Anything you say, sugar."
I held the bar of soap in my hand like a dagger, and rubbed it along her cunt walls. It scrubbed smoothly. I worked the soap in very gently, rolling, rubbing, probing, as if it were a vibrator, and I certainly knew how to use them. She quivered as I increased the pressure and worked it further up her black twat.
"Uw, mm, do it sugar, do it.. .rub it up my fuck-hole, oh yeah! Yeah, yeah, do it. I'm goin' up, I'm goin' up. Oh baby, rub it, rub it. Faster! Ooh, you're makin' me come, you're makin' me ... "
I speedily jerked the slippery bar in and out of her.
She gripped my arms tightly. Her legs slid slightly off the tub edge, as she shook them in rhythm to my in-out movements. Her cunt closed up tightly around my hand, and the devilish bar of C-"the soap that makes you come clean" their television commercials shout. And this was certainly to be a clean come if you pardon the pun; kind of a combination fuck and douche all in one. She loved it, black and beautiful Dora did. She dug her nails into my arm, locked her cunt around the soap and jerked her pelvis frantically. She sucked her breath in for what seemed about a full minute, and then when she was over the top, "whoosh" let it all out, and shivered one long shiver from head to toe.
Her nether jaws gradually released their grip, and I let the soap slip out. She dropped her legs down and very slowly and sensually slid her cunt under the water. This immersion gave her another noticeable shiver. She closed her eyes and floated in the tub.
I took one of her legs and pulled gently from side to side, gliding her about in the little free space of the tub. Then I bent the leg slightly and took my grip on it further down, at the foot. Her head was back in the water, her eyes closed. I positioned myself, now swinging one of my legs up on the rounded edge. Holding the slender frail-looking foot by the ankle, I grazed it over my thick muff. I polished it leisurely around my cunt, finally sinking the little toes into the tender honey-pot itself. She opened her eyes for a moment, then floating opposite me, smiled and closed them again. She wiggled her toes inside my cunt. This was charmingly effective. Happily, she did not have long nails down there.
When our ablutions were completed, we toweled each other down with the same large towel. I got the baby powder and slapped it all over her. I turned her around and rubbed some up between her ass-cheeks.
Turning her back, I said: "Okay?" and kissed her lightly on the lips.
She smiled. "Okay."
"Good. Why don't you go get dressed now. Use the other bathroom down the hall. And have my breakfast ready in about twenty minutes. See you in a little while."
"Yes, Miss Brady."
I watched her little naked body move to scoop up her uniform, shoes, and underwear. And with a cute little smile and a wave, she went out the hall door, closing it behind. She was such a charmer I wanted to step over and peek out the door to watch her spunky bottom twitch down the hall, but I controlled myself and tended to toiletries: brushing, makeup, etcetera.
It was a little after one when I came downstairs.
"Where you be sittin'? " Dora asked, coming out of the kitchen.
"Um, it's nice out, I think I'll have it on the patio."
"Yes ma'am." She was back to semi-formality now, I noticed.
I went across the living room, and through the open glass doors out to the patio. The sun beat down rather fiercely and I took shelter at the table under a broad umbrella. The sky looked very clean and the air fresh despite the omnipresent smog.
Dora soon brought orange juice, eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. I devoured all.
Later that afternoon I was in the study poring over some notes I had made, and elaborating on them. Notes for an original treatment I was writing in spare time between other projects, this one as yet unsold and unspoken of to anyone.
Generally speaking, my professional career in Hollywood was a matter of being a bought and sold commodity, a craftsman more than artist. I was one who was brought in by the main men, those with the idea for an enterprise, never the one to initiate it myself. These assignments were all adaptations, of either plays, books, or remakes of older movies. I was always, as I may have mentioned, paid more than handsomely: totaling nearly two million dollars for the six pictures I've been involved in in a scant few years. All of them were successful, and my script for Kudrick was nominated for three Academy Awards (though not Best Picture). Still, all six were jobs of work and not expressions of my personal art. It was, though, on the wings of art I entered the world of moviemaking. Which reminds me:
I clue you in on some bio data now not gratuitously. A character from my past makes his appearance soon, and in the retrospective position whence I sit, I see it is best to somewhat set the facts of my immediate past, wherein he fits.
On the wings of art I have said, and a very apt metaphor it is in reference to a film of seven years ago, titled "The Birds Not Singing." I wrote it with my ex-husband, a big gun by the name of M.R. Brady. I had been a journalist, leading a burgeoning free-lance career, selling articles and interviews to periodicals and newspapers. It was in pursuit of one of these same interviews that I met him.
He took a very obvious imagine to me, and I, shortly, to him. It was not hard going on my part: he was both a near-great writer, and a sexy, charismatic man.
He tried to outrage me by a very forward premise early on in our talk. He told me, in so many words, paraphrasing from memory, "You know dear, for me to open up to someone, because I'm really a very internal, you know-introspective person, not able to show the real, that is to say the authentic me, that is to say I, the I or id and ego exposed-" He was always a real bullshit tosser. "Which all goes to say, that for you to know me, I in effect, or in a fact must know you, using this generally transitive verb in the intransitive and archaic, or Biblical sense, as in 'And Adam knew Eve his wife; and she conceived.' That's the Bible for you, always puts it right on the table ... if you see what I'm suggesting, babe."
Well, of course, I saw what he was suggesting. And rather than wigging me out, as he probably supposed it would, the proposition interested me terribly. He if anyone, was nonplussed by the scene when I acceded to his request. Quickly though, he retrieved his cool, shrugged, said "Solid." and led me, my notes, and my tape recorder into the bedroom. As a final stab at outrageousness, just before we set to fucking, he turned on the recorder "in case we happen to say anything of interest for the interview." Needless to say, the tape wound up with only sundry moans and groans. I kept that cassette of animalistic noises as a curious momento, for a long time, till I happened to come upon the thing during our nasty divorce days, and furiously over-recorded some Mantovani selections on it. "So much for heavy breathing, prick!" I remember saying finally, as I clicked off the machine with a flourish.
Anyway, after our auspicious beginning, I retained his interest and he romanced me for several weeks in all the conventional ways, plus, of course, our active bed life.
We married (it was still the "better" thing to do back then). I stopped working, and concentrated on doing the social rounds with Michael, who was just then far between books, but with a pretty constant supply of royalty checks from past publications, keeping us on more than bread and butter.
Then I inherited a son, his from his first wife who suddenly went up in the smoke of a car accident outside Monte Carlo. The boy, Robert, was young, personable, and soon calling me "Ma." Next it was my turn to bear the babies, and a little daughter, Janie, was brought into the world.
Soon, Michael and I, still like newly weds after a year, like purring, screwing lovebirds, came together creatively. He wanted me to collaborate with him on a subject he had for a film. An erotic tragedy, he described it as. We wrote it, he co-produced it with a famous Broadway producer, and we ended up with what is known in the trade as a "sleeper," one of those minor hits that opens unheralded and garners quiet but definite critical and word-of-mouth praise.
Our success inspired Michael not to do more movie work, but to return with vigor to what he considered the more "serious" medium of The Novel. I returned to my occupation as housewife, hostess, and secret slut. The secret part was not sustained for long, though.
The scene is Maine, several years ago. Michael's brother Joel, younger by five years, ran a lodge up there on a lake. It was late September and the place was officially closed, but Joel had invited us up as his guests for a long weekend before he shut down the place for the winter, and left himself for his home in Florida. There was no one else in the vicinity but we three "family," a cook, and a general handyman.
On the Saturday morning of our stay, a call came from Michael's lawyer. It was the fallout on a libel suit pending against him-by one of the principles in a very libelous roman a clef, his last book. It became quite imperative for various obscure personal reasons that Michael see the complainant that very day or lose what the lawyer saw as a very good chance of halting the suit, etcetera, etcetera. Michael didn't think it was possible. Didn't think it was necessary. Joel said there was one flight to New York from Bangor in the afternoon.
"Well all right, if I have to," Michael said, and told the lawyer what plane he was catching. The lawyer said he hoped he could keep the certain party on hand that long.
Michael wanted me to come with him, seeing as how there wouldn't be any sense in his coming back from New York, the weekend would be shot and all that. I told him no, forget it, there was no reason why his lawyer should spoil my weekend.
I'd go back on the Sunday night flight as planned. Joel agreed, and mentioned how he'd be on the same flight so there was nothing to worry about.
Michael left for the airport.
Then it started to rain. Joel and I sat on the verandah of the main lodge and watched the rain. I had given him sufficient high signs, but was loathe to go and make the first real seductive move. He was loathe also, the scrupulous man, but did awkwardly acknowledge my feminine signals indicating I had hot pants for him. Then he brought out the booze and we started drinking. This went on for an hour or so. It was twilight.
The employees were absent, only little brother and me.
Joel was still too guilt-ridden to make the first grab, so I did. I waited, though, until I thought he thought I thought we were both mindlessly drunk, so that he could use that as an "excuse" later, for conscience and otherwise, for his faux pas with his brother's wife. I always believe in letting a man play whatever mind games he wants, so long as he ultimately sticks something long and pliable up my fuck-hole. And this Joel did, finally, with great accuracy and staying power.
We went to my room, because I had an idea of changing for him into my little white nightie, which I bought a couple of sizes small so that it came down just below my navel in the front and spine in the back, leaving my lustrous red rosebush and ample pink ass-cheeks totally exposed, in any standing, sitting, or lying position. In this outfit, nude from the hips down and modestly covered from the hips up, I am a very erotic spectacle I have been told by all who've seen me in it (and many have). It is particularly effective when I add stiletto high heel shoes to the ensemble. I once played hostess to a rather large but informal party in just such a costume.
Anyway, we went to my room. Joel brought two handfuls of liquor bottles. I changed into my nightie. We made a toast "to Michael," and then I took out Joel's cock, a sleek veiny thing I remember, electrifying to the touch. I sucked on it for awhile before squatting over him and sticking it up my twat for a long ride.
While we were fucking, we heard some scuffling against the door. Joel thought it must have been his Indian handyman, and started to get up to catch him. The idea of the Indian spying on us through the keyhole excited me and I stopped Joel from going.
It was someone at the keyhole, all right, but not any blessed Indian.
The door was heaved against three harsh times, and on the third broke open, revealing my own Michael (and I never suspected him of such an athletic nature). Joel looked up at the figure standing in the doorway. Quickly, by frantic reflex, he threw me off and I fell to the floor in a heap. This was a bad move on Joel's part, for it left his erect and glistening member exposed to his older brother's wrath. Sure enough, Michael lunged for that same tool. He actually punched Joel's cock. In another reflex action, Joel slammed his legs together so fast he nearly burst his balls. Michael jumped on the wounded adulterer like he was going to rape him, and started throttling him, a stern grip around his neck. "Plane's cancelled!" he shouted. I jumped on top of the two of them and tried tickling their groins.
The falsely accused Peeping Tom, the Indian handyman that is, responded to our general shouts and commotion. His boss, in particular, was screaming and groaning. Poor Joel was having a hell of a time, being tickled to hilarity and strangled to death at the very same time. His employee threw both us assailants off. Michael stood up immediately. The Indian spun him around and slugged him a solid kidney punch. My husband dropped to his knees in agony.
I covered my pussy with my hands, as if in modesty, but really to feel the cunt juice that the fucking and then the fighting really set flowing.
Later, Michael informed me he would file for divorce. I quickly told him I would file a counter-suit and fight a bloody battle rather than come out in public as the erring wife and mother. As evidence, I would try and make something out of a homosexual relationship he had told me about having many years before. The idea of it coming out publicly, even if I couldn't win with it, set him shuddering and he made a settlement. We arranged that he would take the two children during the summer months, and I would have them for the school year.
Not long after the final decree, Michael moved to London, and I got a job in Hollywood through my name having been (deservedly, of course) on the credits of "Birds Not Singing." I fared well with the assigned screen adaptation, got another offer,, and moved myself and children to California.
This brings it pretty much up to date.
Up to me in the study, where we left me prior to flashback, studying notes and stuff-when the doorbell rang.
I paid it no mind as it rang a second time. Dora's job. A third, fourth, fifth. I got up with a huff, went out to the hall calling "Dora, where are you, dammit?" I went to the door.
He was a little older, naturally, a little more wrinkled then last time, but his beard was heavier to conceal the truth. He scratched under his eye and looked over me into the house.
"Hello Helen, baby," he said.
"Hello Michael. What brings you to my neck of the woods?"
"This and that. And I wanted to see the kids. Where are they?"
"In school. You weren't supposed to take them till the end of June, you know that."
"Yeah, yeah. Fuck it, don't start hassling me already."
I shrugged broadly. "Well then, screw off. Come back in a couple of hours, they'll be here then." I started to close the door.
"Hey, hey, Helen, is that any way to be. Shit, man, aren't you going to ask me in, offer me a drink, drop on me, you know, all the proprieties?! "
"I don't think I should," I said. "You haven't been too kind to me over the years, and besides I'm busy."
"That's no way to treat the father of your children," he said, pushing open the door and going by me. "Nice layout here. You've done a lot with it since you've moved in, huh?"
"This and that."
"Yeah." He wandered over to the patio entrance, opened the glass doors and stood outside.
M. R. Brady was tall, thin, and only vaguely showing his 45 years. He was fully bearded, and had shoulder length hair, very bushy in the front. The eyeglasses he wore these days were darkly tinted, hung low. He was wearing what I knew to be almost a uniform with him: black turtle-neck, tight black pants, (green) suede shoes, and a waist-length brown leather jacket. In sum, an aging hipster.
He looked across the lawn, looked up at the sun, and adjusted his shades further back on his long, tightly pinched nose.
"You giving me a drink?" he asked, turning to face me.
"What do you want?" I reluctantly said. "What's on."
"Gin and tonic."
"Solid."
I got to the liquor cabinet and fixed it, and one for me. He snuck up behind me there, and put a hand on my waist. I was wearing tight, thin blue jeans, too sensual to the touch to let him get near, the rat, so I moved out of the grip and handed him his drink.
"Why didn't you ever tell me you dug monstro houses like this?" he queried between sips. "While we were married."
"You probably couldn't have afforded it."
"Oh, oh, none of that now. I taught you everything you know, anyway, Miss Successful Screenwriter. And I'm not doing so badly myself, you can imagine."
"I hear your last book was murdered and died quickly, hot shot."
"Yeah, well ... that's another story." He backed away and pretended to be giving the once over to the paintings on the wall. "You've forgotten what I taught you about art," he declared. "I told you so many times, it's hipper all around if you buy originals by possibly struggling but promising new artists, instead of fucko copies of the masters. This tired Chagall print, for instance-I mean it's so pointless if you're not looking at the authentic canvas the man put his paints to-"
"Michael dear, the Chagall, uh, is authentic."
His mouth hung slack, but only for a moment. He made a "tick" sound at the side of his mouth, looked back at the painting, and said: "Yeah, fucking beautiful, isn't it. Old Marc to me is really numero uno, no contenders. N'est-ce pas, baby?"
"Sure Daddy, sure."
"Mm. Yeah ... how 'bout a refill on the G and
T," he muttered dreamily.
"Coming up," I said, adding "I suppose."
We sat down in the living room with a second round.
"When'd you say they'd be home?" he inquired, glancing at his watch.
"In another hour. Where'll you be taking them this summer?"
"Oh" He leaned back and put his arm up on the back of the couch. "I was thinking of sticking around here for awhile, you know, getting into the Hollywood scene and all that."
"Hanging around here?" I repeated. "Where here?"
"Oh, I don't know ... I figure you could perhaps put me up here in the house ... give the kids a chance to see us all as one big happy family for a little bit."
"Fuck you, pal. Not a chance. I take care of the kids by myself all year. They're about to be yours now till September."
"What are you getting so excited about, baby? I thought you might enjoy having a man around the house. I figure a girl like you, with normal or rather supranormal desires, in a big house like this, with two kids to manage must get kind of lonely, huh?"
Well, he was striking out once again, and I told him so. For such an artistically accomplished man he could seem as psychologically vulnerable and/or obvious as a child. He was doing such a bad job at his digs but was so insistent about attempting them that I couldn't let him off the hook too easy.
I asked: "And what about your love life, hot shot?"
"Out of sight, Helen. Strictly fantastic, natch."
"Not what I heard," I suggested calmly. "A mutual friend, who shall remain nameless, said he was talking to some of your intimates while in London, and he got the dope on the Chinese stripper you were shacked up with. And they told him, if I got it straight, that she left you flat, saying something to the effect that you were 'strictly from dragsville,' and a hindrance to her career, you were so possessive. Sounds more like a hooker than a stripper. Well," I shrugged, "maybe she was both."
He turned a subtle shade of purple, obviously demeaned to the crack.
"Hope I haven't touched on a sensitive spot," I hammily apologized. "But really, Michael, you should learn to be more discreet. And not go out with gossips."
"Bitch," Michael muttered, at me I suppose. He raised his head and repeated much more voicefully: "Bitch!"
"Michael, really! You're a guest in my house, remember!"
He downed the remains of his second drink, and stared at me, boiling. "Oh Helen," he began, "you're a real sweetheart, you are. You've really tried to zing me down good, haven't you? Ever since I arrived, one fucking ballbreaker after another. First you don't want to let me in. Then you treat me like a bill collector, you don't even offer me a seat or a drink. You tell me I didn't take care of you right when we were married. Tell me I couldn't afford a house like this. Tell me my last book sucked. Maybe it did, you didn't have to remind me! Then you tell me I can't move in here and be with my kids. You question my taste-the painting bit, let's not forget that. And then you have the nerve to throw up in my face a personal and private relationship I had with that hooker-I mean stripper-that fucking Chinese girl, I mean, for God's sake! You're a real twenty-carat freak bitch you are, doll!"
He stood up, fuming. So I stood up, fuming.
"Okay, prick," I said. "That cuts it. You don't like the story, you get out. Go on, out! I'll show you the door, so you don't get lost on the way."
I crossed by him and went out to the hall. I opened the front door, and shouted in to him: "The door's out here, shithead!"
There was no response. Then I heard him coming, moving into the hall. He came towards me, slowly ... blank-faced, silent.
"You can wait for your kids on the street," I stipulated.
He stood before me and stared. It was a little disconcerting. Suddenly, he moved an arm up and slammed the door shut behind me.
"What the-" I started to say. He squelched my words, though, by taking a fistful of my pink pullover and with one sweeping movement raising it up and back over my face, exposing my boobs!
The oncoming scene was to be expected. I had humiliated him to a kind of mild breaking point, where, in his fragile genius' ego, he saw only one door open to reclaiming his deflated macho stance: that is, rape, primordial, savage, overpowering. Not that he didn't have fucking me in mind from the first.
I tried to move back from him. He slapped my pullover-covered face. It was a stinging slap, but I didn't scream. The situation was too interesting to panic over. Now blue jeans are not generally the easiest things to rip off, so it was with laudable dexterity that my charming ex managed, in a flash, to undo the silver button, tug one side so that the zipper spread open, and continue the tug till the jeans were down around my knees (and all this with only one hand, the other limb higher up, shifting wildly between squeezes of my bare tits and shoves at my head).
He got a little rough now, as I stood there, a sartorial mess, but modesty still somewhat preserved in my sky-blue panties. He gave me quite a hard backhand that made me stumble back against the closed door. I tried to gain my balance. He pulled my top off my head, and threw it to the floor, and knocked me back against the door. He stooped on one knee and grabbed my panties. His knuckles touched my curly cunt hair. He tried to rip the nylon panties apart but they didn't give, so he pulled them down roughly instead. He stroked my gleaming rosebush. He kissed me there and bit at the curly hairs, plucking several and swallowing them. I threw a leg up and cracked him in the jaw with my knee. He took both my legs and pulled them forward at the knee joints, making me fall back sideways, this time collapsing on the floor.
He scurried over me, and pulled the jeans and panties off one leg. He spread open my cunt and stuck several fingers up it. He jerked off my tender lambpit till I was a drooling mess. All the while he got more and more excited himself, and began making weird moans like: "Nyahhh, nyaaa ... " and moving his hand in and out of my juicy pus, up further and further, stretching the fingers like he was straining to pluck some jewel that lay in my womb.
He pulled out his hand and dropped his bearded face into me, slobbering spittle over my cunt already soaked in its own sweet come juice. I felt my pussy-hair matting down with the onslaught of sticky liquids, his from his mouth, and mine spilling out of my cunt.
"Ah, ah, oghhh ... " I could be heard to breathe, as his tongue moved around my stiff clit, and as his heavy beard tickled the outer lips of my sensitive cunt. He rolled the clit, the little band of flesh, and sucked on it, driving me wildl I swayed from side to side, his head firmly sunk in my beaver, and made numerous cracks at him with my thigh-after all, if I didn't struggle it wouldn't be rape, would it?
He got his face out of my pussy and yelled up at me in a voice like a mild-mannered madman: "Okay bitch, now I'm gonna fuck your brains out!" He sat up, kneeling on my thighs.
"You bastard!" I cried, swinging at him. "Let me up! Let me up!"
"Not yet, doll. First you're gonna get a taste of something you haven't had in a few years!" He broke open his pants and pulled them and his briefs down below his cock which was stuck up and throbbing. He was really flexing the muscle on it.
"See this, Helen, baby?" Michael whooped, taking his prick in his fist and shaking it. "Here's an old friend for you. You remember how you two used to play in the old days, huh? Huh?! Well you're gonna get together again now, baby! I'm gonna ram this cock up your twat till it comes out your mouth!"
"Bastard! Bastard!" I screamed, hoping he would stop threatening to ram his cock up my twat and actually do it.
"Don't fight! Don't fight it, baby, it's going in. You're gonna be fucked till you're blue in the face! Humiliate me, you cunt-head. We'll see who's humiliated."
He slapped his swollen cock against my fleshy thigh. His other hand tugged on my cunt-hair and then raised open my right leg. He still held his cock tightly, and rubbed the head on my bush. Oh, God it felt good, moving over my ticklish mound. The head was covered with a layer of clear sperm. He moved it down into the honey-pot, awash in its own sticky cum and leaving my cunt walls well greased for easy entry.
"Here it comes, baby!" Michael declared. "Up your sweet pussy I'm putting it! Ugh ... " He pushed in tight, filling up my cunt.
I shook my ass under him, causing more gratifying friction and also continuing the sham of struggle from the "ugly rape."
He went on and on, with sharp heavy thrusts up my pussy, his long cock driving me to the top. I started to come. I moaned, groaned, gave up all pretense of disapproval, and gripped his hairy buttocks with both hands, holding his prick in me as tight and as far up as possible. I came and started to come again as he started thrusting now faster and faster.
He made all the weird noises, "Hooob-nyahh, yaahh-" and really socked it in at high speed. I held back my second coming till he reached his first, and then I held him tighter and caught his load.
When it was over, he lay atop me, breathing heavy, his sunglasses slid down at the tip of his nose.
"Whew," he exhaled, after a couple of minutes. "I don't know what came over me ... "
I gave him the raised eyebrows look. "Oh, really," I said softly, "Well I know what came over me-you did, creep."
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, rolling off of me. "I'm sorry Helen. I'm really sorry, forgive me."
"Sure," I said sarcastically.
"No. I mean it. You've really got to forgive me for this."
I sat up. "Sure, I'll forgive you-on one condition ... you promise to do it again sometime." I laughed quietly.
I looked back at him. He was staring at me, his mouth open, shaking his head slowly. "Shit," he whispered, "you really are a crazy bitch ... Jesus, what a cunt."
I pulled panties and jeans back over my naked leg, and pulled them up, raised my fanny and up to the waist. "My top," I said to him, pointing to where it was beside him. He tossed it and I pulled it on.
All dressed, my cunt nicely warm with fresh come in it, I said: "If you'll excuse me now, I've got work to do. As I said, I'd prefer it if you'd wait for your children in your car, if you have one, on the street."
I left him on the floor, and went into the kitchen. No one. The laundry room door was open and I looked in. There was Dora, sitting beside the running washing machine, and watching a soap opera on a tiny television she had brought in with her.
"Dora," I said, "don't you fucking pay any attention to the rest of the house?"
"I'm doing the wash," she stated simply.
"Yeah, I can see that, but, what about ... I mean, do you have any idea what just happened to me?"
She looked at me perfunctorily, trying to keep one eye on the television. "Raped?"
"Hm?" I sighed. "Never mind, never mind. Watch your show. Enjoy yourself. Never mind me, dear."
I returned to my study to work on my notes. Shortly, I was disturbed once again, this time by my seven-year-old daughter Janie, and my fifteen-year-old step-son, Robert. They came in to tell me they were home from school.
The girl, who, by the way, was redheaded like me, and a real cutie-pie, informed me that
"Daddy's here, and he wants to take us out to dinner. Can we go with him, Mommy?"
"If you want to, kids. Make him take you someplace nice."
Robert, who is tall and looks two years older than he is, asked "Do you know where Dad's taking us this summer?"
"I don't have any idea," I answered. "Your father and I didn't do much talking when I saw him."
"Did you and Dad have another argument?"
"No, dear, but we had a pretty much non-verbal kind of reunion."
"I don't get you," Bob said.
"Never mind. Go along now, and run up a big bill. Give me a kiss first. See you tonight." And I returned to my writing.
Not long afterwards, I got a call. It was Milos Keisler.
"Hello Milos. How are you?"
"Not bad. Not good, you know. My head's a little heavy, but I'm used to it."
"Yeah," I said. "Any static about last night? No police at your door or anything?"
"No. I think those pigs didn't report it. It wouldn't look too good for them, you know, even if they said we were lying."
"Sounds like the case."
"Yeah.. .what I'm calling about is what we talked on last night."
"Hm? What's that?"
"You know, the film we spoke of. The one you're going to write for me."
"You're for real now?"
"I tell you I wasn't joking. I was with the producer, Harry Arnagle, at lunch today, discussing it. He wants to meet you. And you've got to read the book, of course. What do you say about it, now you know I'm serious about us working together?"
"Sounds like a very possible proposition. We seemed to work pretty good together last night."
"Yah, yah, right," Milos said.
"But, um, I'll have to be sure I'm right for the assignment. I don't want to put your career in the toilet just because you're mad about my pussy."
"Not to mention your big tits and your perfect round ass."
"So when does Mr. Arnagle want to meet me."
"Tonight at dinner."
"No, no, not tonight. I've got to stay home tonight. My kids. What about tomorrow."
"I'll see," Milos said. "I'll talk to him and get back to you."
"Solid, Milos. Take it slow."
SEVEN
We got together at the Sundowner Restaurant for lunch the following day. Mr. Arnagle, a short, sallow, pudgy, toupeed man of about fifty-five, had, it was obvious, the hots for me at first sight.
"Now this," he said to Milos at our introduction and handshaking, "is the kind of creative staff I like working with. If you'll pardon my candor, but right off the bat I'd like to say you're the first writer I've ever worked with that ha, ha, looks good enough to eat. Usually they look like me. Haa!" He guffawed and waved his hands animatedly. "Come on, seat that pretty fanny." He pulled the table out for me.
We all sat down.
"If you don't mind me putting some more cards right on the table," he continued, "I'm not one of these 'New Hollywood' type fruits you see around here these days. You know, the kind that would rather stick their cock in another guy's corn-hole than anything else. Ha! That ain't me. I'm an old-fashioned pussy-jabber, pure and simple
... and normal. And I don't mind saying that you've given me a hard-on right now, just seeing that full body of yours. Shit, yes. I think we're gonna work well together ... waiter-get the fuck over here will ya!"
We had a few drinks, and got around to the subject of the film. It was from a book just published, by a new writer named Martin Johns. "Island of Fury" was the title. Milos gave me a mimeo sheet with a summary of the story. It concerned a Caribbean colony beset with racial tension and anti-colonialist terrorist activity. One of these groups has been particularly concerned with murdering white tourists. Then they are joined by the ostensible "hero" of the story, an American adventurer, who has sold them guns. While pretending to be a believer in their cause (but actually plotting to double-cross them for his sole profit), he devises a plan for them to kidnap the European mother country's young princess, on her upcoming visit, and hold her for an enormous ransom, thereby getting money for the movement and world attention to it. They succeed in the kidnapping, through sheer suicidal and violent bravado, losing several of their number in the nab. The princess is taken in the American's sailboat to a tiny deserted island. Several of the men stay there with her. They repeatedly gang fuck the poor princess. Back on the main island, the American, his girl, and the chief revolutionary make the pick up on the ransom. The adventurer kills the chief, tips off the police to the princess, and prepares to split with the chick, rich. But she is an idealist, and balks at his double-cross of the cause, and shoots him. The tiny island is besieged with commando paratroopers, and there is a battle. The princess is found dead, her throat slit.
"The plot sounds like it's got all theingredients," I said, laying the sheet down before the producer and director. "Of course a mere outline can never accurately presage the actual quality of the full work itself."
"What's that supposed to mean?" said Arnagle.
"In other words, I still have to read the book and see how much work's involved in making it filmable."
"Take my word on it," Milos said, "the book will make very easy transfer. Is not great literature or amazing prose style, but very rich in external incident and characterization, very cinematic. I will be working with you on it, anyway."
"Oh really?"
"Yah, sure."
"And what kind of money are we talking about?" I asked.
Arnagle answered: "Fifty thou up front. And maybe a couple points of action. It depends."
"Well forget the action for now," I advised. "But you'll have to see about upping the ante. I want six figures or it's not even a possibility."
"Chrissakes, baby," Arnagle immediately wailed. "Why don't you cut off my balls while you're at it. Drape 'em over your rearview mirror. Six figures she says! Do you hear her?"
Milos tried to calm him with a wagging hand. "Cool down, Harry ... Listen, Helen, this is going to be a more independent production. We stand closer to the profits then, see. But so we can't afford to throw around too much before we're even started, huh? When the gross comes in you see a big share. Not one or two points-that's Harry talking through his ass-hole. We keep the profits in the family-we three and maybe the star (depends on who we get). You get, uh, an equal share."
"What?! " Arnagle exclaimed.
"Well," Milos amended, "Near equal."
"Christ," said Arnagle, "I ain't used to doing business this way, you know. You're a little screwy to work with, Milos. It ain't good for my heart."
"Relax Harry. Just get the money. We're gonna make a picture. Right Helen?"
I looked at the two of them, and chuckled. "It looks that way, boys."
"Okay then," Arnagle shrugged. "So let's get something to eat. Where's the waiter ... where is that guy? What was he a kraut? There he is-hey, hey, sprechen sie deutsch? Yeah, you-get your ass over here, we're hungry."
After lunch we went out to the parking lot for our separate cars. Milos had to go to his studio to see a print fresh out of the lab, of his just-completed movie. Harry Arnagle wanted me to stop over at his office and pick up a copy of "Island of Fury," and this and that.
"Hey, come on," he said. "We're gonna be working together we gotta get to know each other better. You know, check out my turf, doll. See how I operate."
"I can imagine how," I said warily, taking his last line to be a double entendre, though he seemed sincere in his invitation. "What's your address?"
"1056 Sunset. I'll wait for you downstairs, huh?"
"Okay."
"I'll see you both later," Milos said, and climbed into his Austin-Healey.
Arnagle drove a red Cadillac. I followed out behind him, and into the traffic.
His office was not exactly what I expected. It was situated on the second floor of an old building, atop a topless-bottomless joint. The office itself was small, but crisp and clean. His secretary was the proverbial blonde bombshell type. We went into the inner office.
He closed the door behind me, and tried to very subtly turn the lock over, but I heard it anyway. I smiled to myself and wondered what the guy thought he had in store for me.
"Siddown, siddown sweetie. What do you want to drink?"
"Hm? Oh, nothing."
"Come on, don't be an old fart."
"Okay. Scotch."
"Soda?"
"Yeah."
The room contained a bookcase, a conventional desk, and two stuffed leather chairs.
"So listen," he said, when we were seated with our drinks. "I think we're gonna have a good time on this thing. You can come down to the islands when we shoot, right? I don't know what fucking island Milos'll choose. The kid's a genius. That's my opinion. With his name we're a cinch to get banking. This deal, ha, it'll be tied up, the money in my hand within the week. No sweat, ha, ha. Drink up. Down the hatch ... that's the way, let me refill you."
We nursed our seconds staring at each other over the desk.
"You really do things to me," he finally said. "It's kind of obscene."
"That's not the way to speak to a business partner," I admonished.
"Oh shit. The way I see it, I mean from my point of view, this movie business is a matter of personalities. The, uh, working relationships, the one's that really work, I mean click are the ones that are also personal relationships. You follow?"
"As far as you've gone. But I don't know if I care to follow you any further," I said snootily.
"What is it, the old story, I ain't no Robert Redford? Ha!" He adjusted his black toupee. "Listen baby, you don't fuck the face. Well, I mean, I guess you can in a way, but, uh, it ain't the most important aspect of the anatomy when you get right down to the nitty-gritty."
"I take it you're referring, rather obliquely, to your sexual organ?"
"You hit it," he said gaily, pointing an index finger at me, "right on the head. Ho! Get it? On the head-sexual organ. Oh, brother, I'm dynamite with the humor when I want to be!"
"Oh brother," is right, I thought to myself.
He got out of his chair and came around and leaned against the desk right in front of me.
"But, uh, enough with the jokes," he purred, if you can possibly purr with a gravelly Bronx accent. "We were, in fact, speaking of my prick."
"Were we?" I said noncommittally. "I thought we were speaking of the fact that you looked nothing like Robert Redford."
"Now don't be coy, whaddaya call it, coquettish. You're not that type, I have a feeling. You're the free spirit sort. The, uh, adventurous, sensual type. You like your pleasures and you know how to get a hold of 'em."
"Thank you, doctor."
"If I can venture an opinion on such short notice, I'd say you've got a case of cock on the brain."
Amazing phrase! Maybe he was a doctor. Or the brother of my psychiatrist?
"Say, Mr. Arnagle, you're getting a little frisky, aren't you?"
"Call me Harry. Frisky? Nah. Look at that for Chrissakes, will ya!" He was staring at his own lap. A bulge was quite evident at the crotch of his burgundy slacks. .
"You're packing a gun?" I cracked.
"No, that's my pet snake right there. He gets movin' around like that whenever he wants me to take him out for a walk."
"Well then, don't you think you better do what he wants? Before he gets mad and bites your balls."
"Yeah, yeah, right, you got a point there, dear!" He started to pull his zipper down, then had a thought and stopped. "Listen, would you mind much taking him out for a walk yourself, you know, I'm kind of tied up at the moment."
I considered it for a second. Then I pulled down the zipper and put my hand in his fly. He had a real heft on. I could feel under his loose boxer shorts. I pulled the fat thing out. It was slippery and pulsating. I jerked the foreskin up over the fat head and back down. Leaning forward, I fitted my mouth over his dong. It grew and stiffened with the first touch of my lips. I sucked on it, working it far down my throat. He really had a very nice flabby prick, just perfect for sucking, because you could play with all that loose skin over the erect bone.
I got a good rhythm going, moving down on it to the hilt and then back off till only the tip of my tongue was still touching. I would then take the shaft in my fist and jerk on it till it was all sweaty with come and then I would lick all the jism off like his cock was a popsicle or something.
Harry was enjoying it to be sure, though fairly silently. He just stared at me, with his pork in my mouth, and he chewed on his lip. I poked the point of my tongue into the little slit, the little eye of the cockhead. There was a little turn of skin there and then the hole, and I parted the little folds and put my tongue in the pisshole. I gobbled up the cock again, all the way down, and worked on it with increasing speed.
Harry Arnagle stroked his chunky hands through my hair and rubbed my neck. "Swell. Swell, baby ... . " I sucked faster.
"Yeah, yeah, that's the way ... I'm coming now, baby, faster, a little faster ... yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm gonna come ... come up to the head-oh Christ shit.. .Ohhohhhh ... . "
He shot his wad in my mouth, but with only the head in. I had very nicely slipped up to the tip as he instructed, just as he started shooting. It must have been dynamite for him, it was such perfect timing. I inhaled the come down my throat, and sucked softly on his deflating prick.
"Ohhh," he moaned, and leaned back, putting both arms behind him on the desk. "Wow ... "
I finally let the sticky, flaccid cock out of my mouth.
"Wow ... that's the best blowjob I've had in weeks-months maybe ... shit, Helen, I'm gonna enjoy working with you ... that Milos sure can pick em.
"Yeah, and you've got.a nice dick there, Harry, for a man your age."
"Yeah, yeah, but it's got to be treated right-like you just did, for instance. Christ, you know, if you're up to it, I'd like it if you'd give me some head like that every day while we're together. I honestly think a good suck-job like that, by a beautiful woman, kind of wakes me all up, cleans my mind, and I can think straighter, get better ideas and stuff. Of course, generally it's a lot better if I get to see the actual cunt that the mouth belongs to. Maybe, uh, you want to give me a quick glimpse, just so I'll, uh, know the territory when we next get together. Well, anyway, it was just a thought."
"No," I said, "you're entitled. My twat is down there for the asking."
Standing before him, I hiked up my skirt. I held up the skirt with one hand and folded down my panties with the other. Down past the moist red hairs of my thick bush, and just below the crack.
"A gem of a twat," he praised me. "You can make beautiful music with that, I'll bet." He stuck two fingers into the damp juncture. He sighed. "Terif, yeah, but I'm out of the running for a couple of hours. I'll fuck you later, though."
"No favors, please."
"Heh, heh, yeah, I didn't mean it that way. But, uh, ya never know, I might just be able to teach you a thing or two. You know, the wisdom of my years."
"Well, we'll see what happens then." I pulled up my panties and let the skirt drop. "Now put away your prick," I said, "and get me that book you were gonna give me."
"Yeah, yeah, baby, right away." He swabbed his prick with a tissue, zipped it up, took a deep breath and let it out. He went over to the bookcase, pulled out the proper one and threw it on the desk.
"There you go," he said. "Another drink."
"Why not?" He fixed two more.
"When I get the contracts set up, who do I show them to, your agent, your lawyer?"
"I'll see it first," I replied. "And if I don't understand or question something, I'll bring it to the lawyer."
"Okey-dokey ... ain't this movie game fun?"
"No doubt about it. How'd you get in it, by the way?"
"Oh, I come up from the usual Hollywood producer training ground: the garment industry."
"Weird," I said. And I meant it.
That night at home, after some play with the kids, I went to bed early to read the book. Upstairs, I took a piss, and a cold shower, changed into a decent nightie, and, putting on the air conditioner, got under the sheets.
The novel read easy. It was a good little action adventure thing, not much sense, but plenty of excitement. What I didn't expect, and what became a, shall I say moistening surprise, were the several very graphic interracial sex scenes. The first of these is between the rugged white hero and the voluptuous black heroine.
She is sent to his hotel as emissary for her terrorist group, to buy guns and high explosives from him. They have lunch. He puts off talking business to go for a swim. He buys her a bikini at the hotel shop.
After the pool they go up to his room. He tells her that she must take a shower before redressing or the chlorine water will cause a rash. She has never swum in a pool before, and so, hastily accepts, not wishing to do any damage to her lovely body which, the author tells us, is "shimmering blue-black ... her breasts were long and wide, sliding out in a perfect arc pointing up. The nipples also were long, erect more often than not, so sensuous was this girl, Kathleen. Her bottom was firm and well-rounded, inciting all who perceived its perfect shape, bare or clothed, to extend their hand towards it for just one caress, one mere graze across its tantalizing roundness, a single moment's contact that would stay strong and affecting, for an eternity in the minds of those who actually did forget their manners and inhibitions to touch, pat, or pinch those fleshy cheeks. A most beautiful ass! And around in front, covering her earth-mother loins, was a thick and tough clump of black vegetation. This excess of jet-black hair grew there in abnormal proportions, forbidding yet infinitely exciting. To the eye her bush seemed like dark, tangled barb wire. To the touch, though, it was soft and enveloping. One could lay one's face in it and sleep, and dreamily chew and nibble at the long hairs. The dark-eyed beauty of her face matched fully her nether, more directly sexual features."
The girl, Kathleen goes into the bathroom and closes the door. The hero, Roger, notices she did not lock it, and quickly gets off his clothes. When the water can be heard to go on, he quietly slips in. She has her head under the spray and doesn't hear him till he sticks his erect rod between her beautiful twin ass-cheeks. She turns half around in great surprise, but he turns with her and lunges his cock further, touching the edge of her black honey-pot.
The girl, in a very odd fit of pique, does not slug him or jump out of the tub, but does get a hold of the cock stuck in her ass and says: "Let me see it! Let me see it!" She holds it at the base and pulls.
According to the author, the hero's member "extended eleven inches and was thick as a shotgun barrel." The girl plucks it out of her tushy, points it at herself and gets delirious. "Oh yes!" she screams. "A beautiful white cock-stick it in. Stick it back in!" She leans against the shower wall, and fits the thing back in, this time opening her cunt for easier entrance, and he rolls it up doggy-fashion.
"The black hairs along the sides of her cunt, and running up to her dark ass-hole were curly and tightly wound, so that they provided added pleasure to Roger's penis as they pressed against and tickled it."
While I read this shower passage, described in lengthy detail, I kept feeling down at my pussy. From a normal sweat that I started with, it got wetter and wetter. I didn't want to let go the fun with my worked up pus, but I also didn't want to put down the book because I wanted to finish it that night. So I just casually masturbated while I read the sizzling scene. But I didn't know how long I could go on like that before I would have to devote all energy to my lord and master, my pussy.
I read slowly, and fingered my clit and rubbed my bush as I did.
There were several other scenes in the book which kept me juicily worked up. The best came in the second half, about three hours reading time in.
The characters are on the small deserted island in a wooden fisherman's cabin, with the kidnapped princess. The American hero leaves for the mainland to collect the ransom, leaving the twenty-year-old, tall, willowy blonde royalty alone with half a dozen mean-spirited black West Indians. They get to drinking great quantities of demon rum, and making lewd jokes at the captive. Soon they are pulling out their great black cocks and wagging them in the girl's face.
It is particularly cathartic and cool of them in that this princess has been pretty well established, earlier in the story, as personally ultra-snooty and patrician, reactionary in her politics, and something of a racist, with a dislike for Negroes bordering on the pathological. And here she is suddenly, her aloofness necessarily inoperative, with these frisky and muscular blacks removing their trousers and genuflecting their cocks around her. And as their excitement increases, so does the license they take. The cocks are jerked stiff, those that aren't already shot up simply from the titillating fact of being exposed before the actual white princess of their governing European kingdom. The girl is tied to a chair so she is truly a captive audience, as they prance around her obscenely.
The author lovingly describes the length and width of each erect black organ all apparently of mammoth proportions. They gradually expand on the innocuous dancing stuff to some real full-tilt action. One of them hop, skipping in the circle rushes in and clubs the princess on the cheek with his solid dong. She screams maniacally. They all laugh and two more imitate the bit.
None can resist this erotic stunt, and in the next moment the lily-white princess is getting a rather detailed lesson in Negro sexual anatomy, with six well-developed pulsating pricks staring her in the face and slapping her in the face. She shakes her head about hysterically but this only heightens the impact against the cocks pointing all around her, for she would no sooner turn from one tool coming at her mouth, then face right into another one at her side.
One of them goes up behind her, raises her long blonde hair, and rubs his poke on her neck. She flips some more at this. Another orders her to take his in her mouth. She bites tightly and rolls in her lips in answer. The guy rubs his cockhead into her nostrils. He threatens to cut off her ears if she doesn't suck on it. One lowers a knife to her ear to show they mean business.
She says, "All right, all right, I'll suck it," in her aristo dulcet tones.
They tell her not to bite or they'll pull out all her teeth. Well, sure enough, she opens her mouth for the first thick cock. Her face is scrunched into the aghast expression of a child receiving a spoonful of castor oil. The prick is pushed in her virgin orifice and in further. She chokes and spittle drools out of the sides. The black pushes deeper and gets his whole mighty hose in. She sucks on it, but starts to flip out and cry.
"You little cocksucker!" they shriek delightedly. "Look at you sucking that big black cock, princess. Wouldn't your mother the Queen be ashamed of you?! Ha, ha!"
"Maybe," another chimed in, "she would be jealous, huh? Maybe she wishes she could be here and suck on our pricks, hey mon? She would love it, Ibet! Heh, heh, yes!"
The first one is pushed out before he comes, and another man's dong is inserted down the compliant beauty's throat. The rest flounce their erections and continue the banter about the Queen.
"I bet she has a real fine white cunt!"
"Well it must be, if our lovely princess came out of it."
"Yeah mon. I bet the Queen she would really love to sit on some black cock. Stick it in her ass-hole and one up her cunt."
"And one in her mouth," the one being sucked added.
"Yeah ... this one would like it all those ways, too, I have a feeling. Wouldn't you, princess? Wouldn't you?"
The princess cannot answer, for she is very avidly chewing on a length of dark meat. The man pumps it back and forth, steadily increasing speed, and the princess schlurps and draws it in to the root. They note that she is now slapping her thighs together and is obviously very excited herself, cunt-wise, even near coming, perhaps. The man, anyway, does come, and she swallows it all down and keeps sucking, hoping for more.
"Who's next?" the sucked fellow asks between breaths.
"We're going to fuck her in all her holes!"
"Yeah, yeah, we all fuck her! Let's see if she's a true blonde, if her cunt hair is blonde!"
Well, they untie her and rip off her clothes. And yep, her cunt hair is blonde, and this drives them bananas. They all stoop down and paw at the golden curls, and lick them and stick fingers up her cunt. They lay her down on a straw mattress, and proceed to do what they decided. Rolling her on her side, one sticks it up her cunt. It goes in smooth, we are told, because her little pussy is soaking in juice. She's been digging it!
Another parts her dainty ass-cheeks and shoves his pole up her dirt track. Right up her royal ass-hole! She groans from this second entrance, and the violator has plenty of trouble getting his full length of rod up her tight shitter. Finally it gets in, to the hilt like the one in her cunt, and she is plowed front and behind.
There is some fighting over who gets to fill her mouth, but a candidate quickly comes to the fore and puts it in. Yet another guy squirms into the huddle and puts his cock between her rosy titties, holds the two close on his member and jerks off.
The princess starts howling, weird animal noises. She is coming like crazy, and screaming from pleasure. The author informs us that she had never known anything but her own fingers in her pussy, and not even that in her shithole, nothing there but the perennial toilet paper I suppose.
The circumstances of her kidnapping have gone from fear and humiliation to cosmic ecstasy. All six of her captors finally get a shot at the imperial lambpit, and she responds to each one with increasing abandon and rapture.
The action jumps here to the American hero, his pick-up of the ransom, his double-cross, and the rest. I skimmed these last thirty pages in a minute. I couldn't concentrate any more, so hot and bothered was I between the legs, from this powerful sex scene with the terrorists and the blonde princess. "The Princess and the Terrorists"-sounds like some fairy tale, but instead of seven dwarfs, six blacks, and instead of them protecting her they fuck her six ways from sundown. Anyway, it left me a drooling mess down south of my rosebush.
I massaged the outer lips of my hole and it tingled wildly to the touch. But I was too worked up for only my fingers to do me justice. I lay the book down, threw back the sheets and got out of bed.
Scurrying over to my dresser I pulled open the underwear drawer and felt about for the good friend I hid there. I found it and took it out. It was a twelve inch dildo of very pliable rubber, and looked precisely to the very vein like a real dick.
I got back in bed with it. I lay back, my nightie raised above my hips, the dildo touching the cleft amid my red cunt hair, and thought about that chapter in the book. I could veritably feel the pussy juice flowing in me again as I recreated the scene in my mind. I stroked the fake cock over my fur and slowly I let it down to the outer lips of my cunt. I shivered, knowing I would have it in me shortly, and how very good it would feel, judging from past experience.
I began to work it into my wet hole. Slowly, slowly I moved it in, rolling it in circles against the cunt walls all the while. My sphincter muscle pulsed and flexed, frightened by the great circumference of this larger-than-life prick. Gradually the muscle relaxed and I could work it in deeper. And finally I had nearly the whole twelve inches, the whole foot of cock in me. It slid out and in smoothly now, and passionately thrilled me.
I closed my eyes and imagined that prim blonde princess and her sweet honey-pot and those big black dongs stuffing up her various holes, ramming her tender shithole, pounding her pussy, another enormous ebony prick stuck in her mouth spurting gallons of come down her throat. Those black men and their stiff rods! I saw them dancing about, their fuckpoles standing proud.
The dildo rammed away in and out of me like a piston, almost without me even touching, in nearly to the hilt, nearly to my womb, and then sliding out three inches from the head, and back in. Wonderful. I saw myself as that kidnapped princess, and it was my cunt and my shithole and my mouth getting stuffed with hard soft hot black cock, and my hands reaching out to grasp in turn each one's heavy hanging balls. And there was that one, leaning over me, holding his prick between my titties. In-out the dildo ran. I took firmer hold of it now. I was coming. I twisted it and jerked it back and forth furiously. I ground my hips around it. The big O started up and my breath came sharper.
I gasped and moaned, "Oh, ohhh, mmmm ... " and bit my lips.
The rubber dildo was like a missile shooting up my twat and exploding. I had a bursting sensation and a weightlessness as if I were floating filled with some intensely pleasurable cool-hot helium. For a full minute I stayed at this peak, coming and coming, ramming my dildo up my pussy and out again at the speed of light.
Sometimes, you know, there's just nothing can top a perfect masturbation. The simple but intense rapport between you and your cunt, or cock as the case may be.
I let the dildo stay far up my pussy even when I was done, and I lay back and rested for nearly half an hour. Deep down I was tired, but closer to the surface I felt restless and excited about the film project. I put the light on the nightstand back on, and picked up "Island of Fury" folded open to where I had left off-taken away by the urges of my boiling loins. I had thirty pages or so left, and I read them.
Finishing it, I was impressed and felt that we had a good chance to make a sexy and exciting picture out of it. It was, as Milos had pointed out, very cinematic, with a concentration on action rather than reflection, all needed info dramatized or brought out in the dialogue. In other words, very easy to translate to script form. I decided to take the first step on it that very night.
Going in to the bathroom, I removed a vial from the cabinet, tapped out two Dexamyl and downed them. Back in the bedroom, I set up my portable typewriter on the dressing table, and sat down before it. I rolled in a sheet of paper and started blocking out the scenes, simply listing them one after the other, eliminating a couple and putting asterisks to a few I already had ideas for elaborating on, and so on.
I worked through the night and early morning. At eight a.m. I went downstairs and had toast and coffee.
When I returned to my bedroom, I got my nightie off, showered, dressed, took another Dexy, and carried my papers down to the study.
At 12:30 I had finished the first draft and called Harry Arnagle to tell him so.
"Oh, oh, great, sweetie ... when can I see it? Did you call Milos yet?"
"No, not yet, and you can see it when I see some bread."
"Oh, you mean pussy you," he said and guffawed harshly. He cleared his throat. "Okay, we'll sign the contract this afternoon. Hopefully, I'll have a check for you. Strictly legit, baby, thirty G's, okay?"
"Thirty! What happened to fifty?! "
"Yeah, yeah, you'll get the rest in a couple of weeks, don't get your ass all sweaty over it. Relax. You're in for a solid share. Thanks to your pal Milos for that, natch."
"Yeah, you tight-fisted prick, no thanks to you."
He laughed into the phone. "So you'll bring the thing over later?"
"Not till this evening. I've got to catch some sleep, dig? I've put in long hours."
"Sure, sure, Helen. Where do we meet?"
"How about Matteo's at 7:30. You make the reservations."
"Okey-doke. See you than, beautiful ... hey!" he screamed, reaching me four inches from hanging up. I raised it again to my ear.
"What?" I said.
"Just, you know, I hope it's not, uh, shit ... I mean it'll be nice if it's good or something, right?"
"Yeah," I deadpanned, "I never thought of it that way, Harry."
The three moviemakers dined all that night. For myself, for collectors of minutia, I made do with a vegetable salad (Gribiche dressing), Trout Ar-mandine, and a bottle of Ruffina Soave, vintage 1971 (best drunk young); for desert, a banana crepe and coffee.
Over the final course I was given my check for thirty big bills. It looked respectable upon close scrutiny, so I folded it and slipped it in my purse. Not bad, I thought, for one night's work. This did not prove to be the case, though.
When the two principles had read it, one, Harry, was happy, but Milos made a list of notes suggesting what he felt were necessary in the way of changes and revisions.
Harry rented a suite for us at the Beverly Hills Hotel, where we were instructed to go for as long as it took to work out a second draft.
We put in long hours, starting at noon. The discussions would begin, turn to paper, and then at about seven we would break for a dip in the pool. Then back to work for two or three hours usually, and I would split for home. Milos was sleeping at the suite.
On the third night of this routine, I stayed typing something for fifteen minutes or so after Milos went for his swim alone. I changed and went down to join him.
When I got there he was talking to a young couple, Milos and the girl reclined on separate chaises, and the guy seated on the edge of the girl's. It seemed an earnest and hush-toned conversation, and it stopped altogether when I intruded upon them and said: "Milos."
He smiled at me and raised his arm in an introductory motion, saying, "Helen, this is Mr. and Mrs. Ruke-"
"Rourke," the woman corrected with a smile. "Hello."
"How do you do," I said.
"This is Helen Brady, my friend."
"It's a pleasure," the man declared, shaking my hand. He brightened considerably at my presence, and altered his position on the chair. His eyes moved very nervously but excitedly over my body.
I tried to pretend not to notice this overdone examination. With his wife there it seemed kind of awkward if not just plain tasteless. She seemed to .take no notice, though, but was in fact rather quickly turning after my introduction, back to Milos and smiling rather seductively at him. Odd couple!
I figured there was something to this bit of strangeness, for Milos, from my knowledge of him, seldom took up or even talked to just anyone. He had an extremely short attention span with those less brilliant and talented than he, and in truth there were few even in a creative center like L.A. near as brilliant or talented as that. Of course, with the couple throwing these lascivious stares I got to sensing their appeal was to his other nature, his carnal appetites which he had been doing a good job of controlling during our work days. The couple were certainly attractive enough, in a conventional bourgeois-hip style.
The man was tall and muscular, though with a noticeable beer belly. He had a neatly-trimmed moustache, brown like his hair which was short in the back and the sides, but brushed down in the front rounding just above the eyebrows. The girl was a brunette, tall and well-built, full-hipped and buxom it was evident in her very chic fed string bikini. Her hair was overdone though, in a heavy, layered, antebellum Southern belle's tresses bit, generally only seen these days on strippers and prostitutes. Both their accents were diluted but definite Midwest.
"You in the movie business, too," the man, Mr. Rourke, asked me.
"Yes," I said politely, and turned to Milos to catch his attention. He was busy talking, or more like whispering, to Mrs. Rourke. "And what line are you in?" I disinterestedly asked the man.
"Wahl ma'am, ahm an exec with the Betcher Life Insurance Company, out of K.C.-Kansas City that is. My wife and I are here on a little vacation. You know, we come to see what this damn Hollywood's got to offer."
"What, hon?" his wife inexplicably interjected.
"I was just telling her, Jude, that we're on a little vacation."
"What's your name again, hon?"
"Call me Helen."
"Oh yeah. And you call me Judy. My husband Lester and I were talking to your friend Milos, you know, gettin' asking him about what the locals do around here for fun, you know." She leaned towards me and popped her eyes a bit for the last three words, as if it were our devilish secret she was talking about.
"Oh, that's good," I replied. "Milos knows the 'in' places, all right. Take his advice."
"Yeah, well what we were learning when you joined us, was-" She looked at Milos and giggled. "-Was that some of the things you people do here in Hollywood are just like what we do at homeyou know, for fun."
"Mm, I'm sure," I said, puzzled.
Milos turned from the string bikini beauty and gave me a kinky and endearingly mischievous shrug and smile. He moved his legs off the chaise for me to sit down.
"Um, what we were-what this lovely couple were telling me, Helen, was very surprising. It's funny-" He addressed the three of us now. "How we on the West Coast, and those in New York, think that everyone in between is strictly hillbillies, like unsophisticated, a very, uh, innocent as far as things like sex are concerned. Ha, ha, while in actual fact it is they who can teach us pseudo worldly types a thing or two. Even you, Helen, hard to believe I know that anyone knows more about sex than you!"
They all laughed at this crack, and I smiled generously.
"I don't doubt it, Peyton Place and that whole thing."
"Oh that's nothing," Mrs. Rourke chuckled, wagging a hand. "I mean believe me, honey, we go for the real thing in our neighborhood, and without all the dramatic crap, if you know what I mean."
"Without," Milos suggested, "all the guilt and unhappiness that so many imagine has to go with, um, what is the word, promiscuity, yes?"
"Mm, yeah," Judy agreed, very impressed. "Without all that stuff."
"Well, I think, if you'll excuse me," I said, "I'm going to take a quick dip in the pool, before it gets dark."
Lester said: "I know what I'd like to take a dip in. Ha, yuk ... see you later."
The naughty boy. I gave a quick annoyed look at Milos, and walked over to the pool.
I dropped my towel beside the step ladder and dived in. The water was quite chill, with a very low sun not warming it. I swam under to the other end, rested, and backstroked my return. In the center of the pool I lay back and floated serenely. I looked over at my group. And they were all three looking at me. Lester Rourke was talking (at least he was moving his lips, all I could be sure of with my ears submerged), and Milos was shrugging and giving a slight nod. The girl noticed I was looking back at them, and she grinned and nodded inanely at me. The other two turned to her and continued their dialogue. Curiosity made me raise my ears above water, but the trio were carefully keeping themselves to whispers. I wondered what they were plotting.
I went back to them a few minutes later, wrapped in a towel and shivering. I sat down at the foot of Milos' chaise again. Lester Rourke switched over to sit beside me, instructing me not to "wrap it around you wet. You've got to pat dry first or you'll pick up a cold in a flash." In a further show of concern, and I guess proper demonstration of the correct technique for drying (Ha!), he opened the towel and rubbed an end of it over my chest, then my arms, back and legs. In between each dab of the towel he would wet his lips and lay his eyes for a moment on my heaving breasts, and my tightly pantied crotch. I was wearing a white knit bikini, not quite the extreme of Mrs. Rourke's but fairly revealing, especially now just out of the water when it would become near-sheer, particularly at the crotch where the presence of my hairy bush would become quite discernible, even, if you stared hard enough, down to their red color. Also quite visible, due to the cold water, were my long nipples, veritably popping like tiny hats out of my brassiere top. And the top was quite parted in the cleavage department, to show anyone who looked that I had a pair of genuinely great tits. All this my Mr. Rourke, insurance exec of K.C. delighted in examining as he rubbed me dry with my own towel. His wife was not the least bit perturbed, though she was interested slyly smilingly so.
We four exchanged a few pleasantries, and then I said, standing up: "Well, I'm gonna go in now, get dressed. It was nice meeting you folks. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay. Coming Milos?"
The three quickly looked to one another.
"Uh, Helen," Milos said.
"Yeah?"
"Let's not break this up so soon, huh?" Turning to include us all in the next statement. "Why don't we all go up and have a drink in our suite?"
"That's a great idea," Lester agreed on cue.
"Why, yes," Mrs. Rourke decided, "that would be lovely." She smiled at me.
"Wouldn't it, Helen?" Milos asked.
I didn't like being played games with, but I was never one to be the party pooper. "Sure," I answered.
And so, it was up to our suite.
We put the unimportant business of the script papers lying about, and the typewriter, and the tape recorder, out of the way, and Milos took our orders.
"This sure is a lovely suite," Lester said to me.
I gave him a strange homebody smile and replied, "Thank you, Lester. We try to keep it looking halfway decent, you know."
I was still in my bikini, except for a shirt over my top. They were in their swimsuits, too, having made no motion for time to go to their rooms and change. Milos fixed the drinks, then went into his room to get out of his suit.
I excused myself, saying I had to ask him something.
"You two wait out here," I said. "I'll be right back."
They raised their glasses to me and grinned.
In Milos' bedroom, he was standing beside the bed, nude, slapping himself with talcum powder, throwing some up at his scrotum and ass-hole, when I walked in. His cock, I noticed, was curved up, slightly stiff and twitching excitedly. He saw me and smiled. He put the powder on the dresser, and touched his cock. It rose up solidly at once.
"What's going on?" I demanded.
"Be cool," he said. "It's going to be fun, Helen."
"What's going to be fun?"
"Our party, our party."
"Oh, our party," I said, sensing there was more to it than that.
"Yah, yah.. .you know, I dig that chick Mrs. Rourke very much. And she dig me-and I think she dig you too, ha, ha!"
"What's that supposed to mean? I mean, will you just clue me in on the situation, so I can know the fun?"
"These two I was talking to for a while before you come down. They're-what you call?-uh, swingers. Swingers? Yah, swappers, you know, wife swappers. In their home state they belong to a club for this activity and all that kind of shit. They are very hip pair."
"Seemed like a square pair to me."
"No, no, they are very free, very groovy people, and very sexy, no? Don't you think? The girl ... and the man is very handsome, very sexy."
"Yeah, yeah, so what's your plan."
"No plan. Is already set except for you. I figured you'd enjoy it."
"So why all the intrigue, the whispering. You act like we were married or something."
"When I got the itch for this Judy, I sounded them on the possibility of some wife-swapping tonight. You know, very subtly, but they were hip to it. He wanted to see what you looked like first, though. And then when he sees you, he gets, uh, bug-eyed, and his cock gets stiff ... anyway, so you want to do it?"
"I guess since you've made all the arrangements, and got your little heart set on it, I can't very well say no, can I?"
"That's a nice mommy," he said. "Now come here and kiss my prick."
It was standing at full attention. Milos must have been really excited at the prospect of bumping Mrs. Rourke's brunette pussy. I came over and took his cock in my hand. One feel of that thick, uncircumcised baby aroused me to no end. I stood there, jerking the long Czech dong. He was a little apprehensive, probably wondering whether or not he should get his cock out of my hands and save all his bodily fluids exclusively for the new pus in town. But I played too well for him to take any action against me. I moved down to my knees before him, and transferred the straining member from hand to mouth.
I touched my lips to the pointy head, and sucked it in like a dagger down my throat. I slid it back and forth, with it only just barely making contact with the sides of my mouth, and then I applied more pressure, sucking tighter.
He pulled over the desk chair and sat in it, and I got down on all fours to reconnect with the all-night sucker.
"Hey, we have guests," he reminded, half-seriously.
"Schllopp," I rolled my mouth off the cock. "They'll wait," I said, and reswallowed the hot sword.
But they were more impatient or inquisitive than I imagined. They looked into the bedroom for us, while Milos was on the chair naked, and I was before him on the floor on all fours blowing him.
"Anybody home?" Lester inquired innocuously, poking his head into the room.
"Whoo!" was Judy's remark when she saw us.
I glanced back at them, as best I could connected to the come-sweating lifeline, and extended my lips to some kind of grotesque smile, arched my eyebrows, and, as an afterthought, gave them a saucy wiggle of my ass that was pointing up at them.
"She's mooning us," Lester said in high spirits.
"It's not a real moon if she's got her bathing suit still on," the wife voiced edifyingly.
I paid them no mind, and continued my suck act.
Milos looked over to them and said: "She's a good little doggie," and patted my head as he said it.
They laughed. I heard one of them approaching but didn't bother to look back till I felt two hands in my bikini panties, pulling them down. I slipped my mouth off and saw Lester behind me. He had my panties down at my knees. They couldn't go any further with my legs bent.
"Ohh!" he exclaimed, staring into my pussy and ass-hole. "Judy come here and look at this."
"Your pussy's fabulous, Helen," Mrs. Rourke agreed when she came over.
I said "Thank you." But with Milos' prick in my mouth it sounded like "fwahwoo."
One of them, Judy I think because the finger had a sharp nail on it, ran the single finger lightly over my ass-hole muff hair, and played about softly with the edge of my cunt. Another hand, stronger, Lester's, held my ass-cheek further apart, and the woman flicked at the curls around my shithole and then stuck it slightly in the hole itself. I wiggled my ass and they laughed. The finger worked further up my ass, getting in rhythm with my sphincter which gradually flexed open more. The cold sharp finger felt electric it tingled me so.
She plucked it out then and put her face to my cheeks. Her tongue licked out at my ass hair. It flicked down at my cunt and pried around the pink lips. I was getting very wet. Her tongue was dry when it touched my cunt, and I felt it very wet right after. With both her hands holding my round cheeks apart, she put her long tongue into my ass-hole. She rolled her tongue to a point, and pushed it up my shit passage just like a very tiny cock. She moved it back and forth in me, very fast. It was too glorious for me to do justice to Milos with my mouth, I was having too much trouble catching my breath. I took it out of my mouth and kissed his balls instead.
I was coming from Judy's tongue-ass fuck. I moaned loudly and licked Milos' balls and rubbed my nose up at the underflesh of his prick. I wiggled my ass wildly, and it caused her tongue to slip out towards the end, but quickly her husband moved into her place, and inserted his to give me another full minute of ecstasy before I had to collapse on my side, breathless.
"Whoo, outtasight," Judy cheered, and dropped down on the floor to embrace me. She lay me on my back and bent to kiss my pussy. "Did you see, Les," she said when she had kissed it, "bright red bush ... like Evelyn's, remember?"
"Yeah, beautiful," he said. "Very beautiful, Helen."
"Thanks," I panted, smiling up at them. "What about me?" Milos asked, jerking his own cock idly.
"Oh-ho, oh honey-bunch," Mrs. Rourke sobbed. "Come to Judykins, baby ... " She took his cock from him and kissed the head several times, then licked her tongue up and down it. "Aw, does baby have a nice big cock for Judykins ... yes, yes, yes-yes he does, all for me ... "
Milos squirmed impatiently.
"Judykins is going to suck on baby's cock and make it even bigger and harder, mm it tastes so nice, can Judykins put it in her mouth?""
"Yes Judykins, good God put in," Milos encouraged.
"Mm, yes," she continued, "I'm going to put it all in my mouth and chew it and suck it till it gives me some candy from its little mouth that I can swallow down, okey-wokey?"
She licked it a little more, and then truly devoured it, with total deep throat action, swallowing Milos' nine inches right to the root, and then sucking in some of his black bush hair besides.
He was overwhelmed by her talent, and came somewhat prematurely. She tried to swallow it all, but coughed the overflow out the sides of her mouth. She took the slimy prick out and wiped the come all over her cheeks and her forehead.
We all went out to the living room, finished our drinks, and Lester this time fixed seconds. I had flipped off my dangling panties, and now stood about in the t-shirt which only half covered my bush and fanny.
"Let's make a toast," Lester suggested.
"Right. What to?"
"To Hollywood."
We raised our glasses.
Judy said: "Wait-let's link arms. Yes." She linked her glass holding arm around Milos', and I followed suit with Lester. We drank up, unlinked, and Lester, with a devilish grin, patted my bare behind.
"Hey," I whispered hoarsely, "get your suit off, huh?"
"Yeah, babe. Right away."
He pulled off his bathing suit and his prick raised its head to look at me.
"Oh, yes," I said, gazing at it. I held it from the underside, two of my fingers pressing his balls.
He, meanwhile, unbuttoned his nylon shirt, threw it to the floor, and reached to pull over my undershirt. I helped it over, and then I was nude but for my white bikini brassiere. He came around behind me and undid the clasp, at the same time pressing his erect cock into the damp between my ass-cheeks. I leaned my head back and lay it against his face, and he kissed me. He lifted my breasts and fondled the nipples and pinched them. I sighed as his lips ran over my eyes and my ear. His tongue dabbed at my right ear. Then he kissed my neck, and held me up to kiss my shoulder. He moved his lips very sensually down my body to my behind. He stayed there, kissing the firm but soft cheeks, grazing a hand over the round curve of the pink flesh.
Then he turned me around and kissed my navel, sliding his lips down to the crimson hairs and biting at them, taking them in his teeth and tugging. He looked up at me, his mouth full of my pussy hairs, and he laughed crazily. I laughed down at him, and opened my legs some more to indicate that he should move on from the barber games and put some teeth in my cunt. He got the message but it was still several seconds before he could tear himself away from my irresistible red muff.
Finally he was chewing on my inner lips, and biting and sucking on my clit, his head all scrunched between my legs as I stood over him. I felt his nose rubbing into my hole, and the hot blow of air from his nostrils as he got winded from the exertion, eating out my cunt at top speed.
He was making me come, and I started bouncing up and down on his face.
"Yes, yes, yes," I whimpered, "tongue it, tongue my fat pussy ... oh, oh I love it, I love it ... my cunt, dig your tongue in it ... " I shivered to the chill of pure pleasure. "Chew on it, chew on it, eat it up, boy, eat it all up ... yesss, mmmm, ahhh-"
I was hopping up and down over him like crazy. His tongue was giving out. I slowed down and stepped off of him. He ran his hands over my rosebush and patted it affectionately. I got down on my knees with him, and jerked on his prick, waiting for him to catch his breath. I hadn't even taken notice of Milos and Judy until then, but when I did they were certainly worth watching.
Their position was the classic "69," but slightly unusual in that the man, Milos, was on top. It's usually easier, of course, for the woman to be there, due to gravity or the set-up of the human tongue, or whatever the hell, believe me it's usually easier for the chick to be on top of the dude in "69." But these two were doing all right. Milos was slopping his face up and down into her black-haired pussy like he was bobbing for apples. And she was sucking both his cock and his balls which hung over her nose, and making occasional dabs at his hairy ass-hole, for she could reach up and spread his cheeks at will. I discerned that long-nailed finger she used on me, as she extended it for insertion in Milos' anus. She worked it in, then drove it out and in, while sucking vigorously on the Czech's pole ... sharp sounds of expelled breath poured out from them.
I looked at Lester, beside me, to get his reaction to his wife's getting and giving head a few feet away. He was watching their act, smiling, beaming even, digging it.
"Your wife sure knows her stuff," I ventured.
He only nodded and beamed brighter, truly proud of the little lady's talents. Well, it was a pretty uncontestable remark. She was now manipulating Milos' cock and balls with her mouth alone, slipping off the rod and covering up the two red bags and then back swallowing up the long prick, while her hands stayed with his ass, one holding the buttocks open and the other dipping in and out of his shitter.
I turned to Lester, and added to my line about his wife: "And you know, you're not bad yourself. I haven't had my cunt chewed that well in quite a while. Come on, put that big cock of yours someplace where it'll do somebody some good-like up my pussy, for instance!"
I jerked the staff a few times to give him a comfortable heft, and lay him on his back. I straddled him and rubbed the prick over my hot lips. With a good grip around the base, I could direct it to several points of interest: along the two lines of crotch hair between cunt and craphole, into the latter opening, and finally right up the fuck-hole. I sat the cock and rode it hard.
Later, we fell into a menage a quatre, of imaginative design. It went something like this, if I can untangle and diagram it properly: starting clockwise, Lester was fucking his wife in the ass-hole, she was sucking Milos' prick, Milos was eating out my cunt, and I had a finger up Lester's shithole while he rubbed one hand over my tits, bringing them to unusually full erection. We gobbled, and groaned, and stroked, and thrust, and chewed, and wiggled, all connected by each other's sexual equipment, moving in a spasmodic circle like some unholy trained animal act.
We changed positions after awhile, to me eating out Judy's cunt, Milos finger-fucking me, Lester sucking Milos' cock, and Lester in turn getting sucked off by his wife. The connected foursome broke up with Milos coming in Lester's mouth. I kept on eating Judy's pussy. The taste and smell were divine. Not the kind of mildly salty, heavy taste I usually found when I stuck my face in a cunt, but a sweet cool delicious meal. She was sopping sweet and sticky, like honey, and her pink lips were so fragile and pliable. This was a girl who knew how to take care of her cunt, I could see that.
But it was also big enough and pliable enough to tell me she had been reamed and steamed by more than just a handful of big hoses. I ravaged her as best I knew how, whipping my tongue into the depths of the pink loveliness and out around the outer lips and the dark tightly curled black cunt hair.
After Milos came in Lester's mouth, Les moved up to nuzzle between my ass-cheeks, licking the hairs, and probing his tongue at my anus and the tip of my pus. Milos lay on the floor away from us, resting. A lovely tingle rose from my rear and I wiggled it down tighter on Lester's mouth. Judy came for the second time under my lapping tongue. She had a weird way of coming where she started to moan but also smile, and when she was really going over the falls she actually seemed to be laughing, a kind of jagged pained laughter that was quite far-out and beautiful to see. You can dig this shot: me, my big ass up in the air, it being sucked by Lester, eating this chick Judy and her coming and kind of laughing strange, like she was a hospital patient just tickled on her fresh appendix scar.
Milos shyly interrupted. "Hey, uh, Lester ... you know that was, uh, weird, you know ... coming in your mouth, man.. .kind of a new experience ... um, if you'd dig it, I'd like to, you know, suck you off, too, Les ... I've never had a cock in my mouth to tell you the truth ... What do you think?"
We looked at him with interest.
Lester shrugged. "Sure." He plucked his finger out of my fanny hole. I rolled my ass to the floor and sat up. I patted Les reassuringly on the back as he moved towards Milos, and coached: "Go to it, boys!"
Les' cock was already erect, just a little less than fully hard. He lay down on his back. Milos licked his lips nervously and took the cock in an unsteady hand. He jerked it very slowly, pulling the foreskin up over the head and letting it roll back. He slowly put his face down to it, and, simply, took it into his mouth. Just a little at first, the head and another inch. He figured out how to breath with it in, and then swallowed some more. Before long he was sucking it like a fag pro, smiling uncontrollably as he sucked and arching his eyebrows and straining his eyeballs to give us girls a glance.
Judy, watching the Czech director suck her husband's prick, was hit by a fit of lunatic inspiration and jumped over to them, and lunged her great hairy black bush into the melange of face (Milo's) and cock (hubby's). She just bumped it out and ground that sweaty pussy over Milos' eyes. He took it okay for a few seconds then he seemed to boil over and slurped off the cock, shouting "No, no, cock is okay, but it's no match for pussy, goddammit!" And he pulled Judy down to the floor and buried his face between her legs.
He twisted her over and grabbed at his cock, jerking it taut and then ramming it deep inside her pussy. He began fucking like a madman.
"Attaboy," I cheered him on.
Judy began to scream.
EIGHT
We were two days more at the Beverly Hills working on revisions. When I was at home I got a call from Milos. The voice was dour.
"I don't know, Helen ... the script is shit, I don't like it. There's something missing ... the element of veracity, feeling of place. I've talked to Harry about it. The three of us are going to go down to Jamaica for a few days. This way we'll see the places we'll use for the scenes. I'll be scouting locations and we'll change the script according to what's available for filming, and what's what scenically speaking. We'll have a final shooting script then."
"It's just a few days?"
"Yah. And the writer of the book, uh, Martin Johns, he lives down there, and will show us around."
So, I had Michael, who had been staying with a friend at Malibu, partying and coming in to visit the kids, stay at the house to be with them while I was away. Next day, I-met Milos at the airport.
In due time, we boarded the plane for Kingston. I saw Harry Arnagle, our faithful producer, nowhere, and asked Milos if he was coming.
He answered me with a "Shish." and "I'll tell you later."
We took our seats in first class, buckled up, and were receiving magazines from the perky blonde stewardess wjhen Harry arrived. One might more accurately say the body of Harry Arnagle arrived for he was brought abroad ostensibly dead to the world. He was strapped to a wheeled stretcher, stood upright now at the passageway of the aircraft. Two men in white uniforms unstrapped him, carried him over to the aisle seat across from me, and snapped shut his seat belt. Harry's head hung on his right shoulder. His mouth was open and he was snoring. His eyes were closed tight, but his eyebrows were doing little manic dances. Then his head twitched, his eyebrows settled, and he was silent.
I turned to Milos in monstro wonderment. He was not even interested, staring out the window as we started moving for the takeoff.
"Milos," I said, as calmly as I could manage. "That is Harry over there, isn't it?"
"Yah," he muttered. "That's Harry."
I waited.
"Well?" I finally demanded. "What's the story?"
"Hm? Oh, yeah. Harry there-" He stopped, correcting himself for speaking too loud, and checking to make sure the stewardess wasn't listening. "He's, uh, afraid to fly, you see. It's absolutely a mental block. Put him on a plane and he freaks out-just goes completely crackers, you know? He's got to fly sometimes, right? So he's got an act, sort of. He tells the airline he's going to see a doctor or some shit like that so they give special consideration. He has himself heavily sedated-" He laughed. "And then a couple of guys from his office get dressed up like doctors or ambulance drivers and bring him unconscious aboard the plane. Pretty weird, huh."
"A little," I readily conceded.
When we arrived in Kingston it was seven p.m. their time. We checked in to our hotel. Harry was half awake in the taxi, muttering and wobbling like a drunk. A bellboy put him into bed. Milos and I went to our separate beds, too, and sacked out for a few hours.
A knock at the door awakened me. It was eleven o'clock. I crossed the dark room to open it, and there was the irrepressible Harry Arnagle.
"Hi baby. I hear we were on the same planehaw, haw-can I come in?"
"Sure."
"They're, uh, waiting for us downstairs in the bar."
"Who's that?"
"Milos and the writer guy. Milos is talking to him for an hour or so about the picture. They want you to come down, huh-add your two cents, heh, heh ... you gonna let me in?"
"Yeah, I'll just be a minute. Sit down a sec, I'll be right with you."
"Where's a light, it's kinda dark."
I closed the door behind him and flicked the wall switch for the overhead light.
"Christ sake," he said, seeing suddenly I was nude. I hadn't even given it a thought. Well, all right, maybe I am a bit of a dcock-teaser.
"Go on, sit down," I yawned, scratching an itch in my pussy. This took his breath away, and he reached out and tugged on my bush.
"Come on," I scolded, stepping back away, "we've got business to attend."
"What a body you got ... look at those tits, they point up ... turn around, let me see your ass."
I more or less complied with his request because I was already turning to enter the bathroom. He whistled softly, and patted me with a backhand on my fanny. There was a "this has been sanitized" seal across the toilet. I tore it off and sat down. I peed.
Harry stood in the doorway and watched and heard as the stream of urine left my cunt to loudly hit the water. As I sat, I turned on the cold tap in the sink beside me, and splashed my face awake. When I had cleared my bladder, I tore off a sheet or two from the roll of tissue and dabbed my pisshole dry. I stood up and flushed the toilet. Harry was still standing there, his mouth hanging open rather loosely.
Harry said: "You were gonna let me fuck you, remember?"
"Some other time."
Harry whimpered: "I'll, uh, meet you downstairs, huh, yeah ... "
The writer, Martin Johns, was an Englishman, blonde, handsome, about thirty, very well-mannered, and charming. But it was no good his making eyes at me, and trying to chat me up. From the moment I hit Jamaica, I was intent on one type only in the way of male company, and that simply was black skinned. I had no one in particular in mind yet, but just so long as the color scheme was correct.
Our party of four talked till closing for the bar, and then we parted for our rooms, to sleep, perchance to dream.
The next morning Martin Johns drove us along the coast to a secluded lagoon. There was an island beyond half a mile, which he thought might prove right for the scenes at the kidnappers' island.
We rented a motorboat and went out there. It was fairly lush, and nearly deserted except for some workmen unloading things into a small warehouse. Most of the island was ringed by a lovely, very narrow pink sand beach. I asked if there was time for a swim, but they said "no." Milos took photos of the place and then we left.
When we got back to the car, we drove to various spots the author considered ideal for representing his creations in the filmization. A house here, a hotel there, a government building, etcetera, etcetera, till late afternoon.
Milos wanted to fuck me, that night back at the hotel, but I begged off. I was ostensibly retiring for the night with a headache. I went upstairs, changed into something pink and seductive, splashed on the perfume, and sneaked out and on my way.
I went to a club, "Hugo's," I had heard of. Some tourists, but mostly the more moneyed natives were there.
I sat at the bar and ordered a drink. Loud reggae rock was piped in blasting. I tapped the bar and nodded my head to the beat. There were a few black gentlemen at the bar, and I wanted them to be sure to notice me. For further inducement, I leaned down (three times) pretending to fix my shoe, thus allowing my low-cut v-neck to really show cleavage, the soft pink of my luscious boobs, loosely packed and hanging big.
One man, in his twenties, tall and broad shouldered, wire-rim glasses, and Afro hairdo, caught my eye, and when I saw him looking at me I smiled and batted my eyelashes down at him very seductively. He was a little put-off by my come-on, but didn't pass it up. He asked me to dance.
"I'd love to," I replied.
We danced a couple of dances, including a slow, embracing one. We talked. We bought drinks. His name was Neville. He was a high school teacher, and had studied, some time back, in the United States. We were pretty high from rum and cokes, and then straight rum, when we finally split for my place.
At the hotel we played it super-coy. I went in first, leaving him with my room number. Five minutes later he knocked and I let him in. After a bit of the usual man-woman repartee, I got down to facts.
"Neville," I lied, "I've never slept with a black man before. Tonight I'm going to, if you'll stay."
"Yes, I will be very happy to."
"Good. 'Cause I'm rather excited right now at the idea. I just fantasize so much about black cocks that it's hard to believe this is real. I want to sit my white pussy on a long thick length of black hose more than anything else."
"Yes, ma'am, ha, ha, I'm very happy."
"I've heard," I continued, undaunted by his vapidity, "that black prick is much longer on the average than white. Let's see some proof, huh? Yes?"
I moved quickly for his pants and worked at the zipper. He grinned, exhibiting large pearly-white teeth. I tugged down his pants, and gasped when I saw his prick there. .It must have been eleven inches just lying flat, hanging down from his crotch. It stirred quickly, though, before I even could touch it.
It stiffened and rose up, but did not get much longer at all then when it was flaccid. Aha, a little physiological trick. Anyway, eleven inches stiff was good enough for me. I grabbed it and moved it from side to side. The skin was much tauter and tougher to the touch than on the usual white.
He smiled down at me, and I smiled up.
"Ooh, Neville honey, I'm gonna suck on this big black prick of yours, okay?"
"Oh yes, very good."
I put it in my mouth. The knob was incredibly thick. It was really too much for comfort, so I just sort of lipped it in a bit and then licked the length of the shaft.
I stood up and took off my clothes. Neville made no move to assist, just stood there with his pants around his ankles, his fuckpole wet and stuck up in the air. I stood before him, completely naked. I played with my tits till my nipples stuck out, and I rubbed my bush up good and fluffy.
"You do like me, Neville?"
"Huh, sure! Oh mon, yes ... your body is so nice."
"What do you like particularly?" I inquired of him.
"Your whole body is very nice ... your pussy-may I touch?"
"Sure, stroke away."
He petted my fur with a large black hand, while I held his prick tightly in my fist. He fit a thick middle finger into the gooey tenderness of my honey-pot, and bent it up.
"Ohhh," I shuddered, "that's the spot, dear. Massage it ... God, you feel how wet it is ... mmm, faster ... . "
We worked in sync, Neville jabbing my wet pus, and me jerking off his long rigid dong. I was just having some foreplay run, but the dope went and came while I jerked him. The ebony club shot great gobs of bubbling sperm, and I rushed down when I saw what was happening and tried to get it in my mouth for a taste.
"Aw, Christ, Neville, couldn't you have held it in a little longer?"
"Sorry, mem, you are so beautiful I guess I couldn't control."
"Yes ... well, I hope you can get it back up soon ... come on, come over to the bed and eat out my pussy for a bit ... while we wait."
I took his hand and led him to the bed. We bounced around on the soft mattress. Neville wiped off his sticky dick with the bedspread, while I fit a pillow under my ass to raise my cunt up. Nev positioned himself between my legs.
"Okay fella," I coached wearily, "get to it, okay? Come on, get your tongue in the old twat and chew away."
"Yes mem, I lick with my tongue, true."
"True, true. Go to it."
He nodded, and grinned his huge set of teeth. Sternly cupping my buttocks, he lowered his face into the humming vage. I moved about, getting him snugly set there, my thighs against his face holding him tight.
He licked out strong long strokes at the labia, and on to my taut clit. As he proceeded to quite voraciously nibble and suck at my erect clitty I writhed about in increasing excitement. I took two handfuls of his tightly woven black hair and clenched at it.
"Oh, mm, yes Neville, do it, bite it, chew that clit, suck it, that's the way ... "
He was really very good once he got the hang of it. When he was able once again to produce an erection, I moved him up over me and guided the organ into my more-than-ready cunt. We fucked.
He pumped away rather conventionally, and climaxed uneventfully. After he left, I got my douche bag out of my suitcase and washed out my cunt.
The following day Milos and Harry were going to meet with a government minister to arrange for permission to shoot the film in Jamaica (with the understanding that a different island name would be specified in any dialogue references).
I had an idea I'd go for a swim, and thought it might be fun to go back to that lagoon and the offshore island we had visited the day before. I rented a small Yamaha and got a picnic lunch together. At a leisurely pace I rode along the coast road for about forty minutes. It was easy to find the spot.
I parked the bike, unpacked my towel and basket, and skipped down to the sea. This time there was no one around to get a motorboat ride from. No one anywhere, at the lagoon dock, or, as far as I could see, over on the island.
I wandered down the lagoon beach till I was out of sight of the road and the couple of shacks beyond it. Trees and bushes ran behind the beach here.
I spread my towel out, and took off my outer clothes. I sat on the sand for awhile, in my bathing suit. It didn't seem there was going to be anyone around, so I stripped off the bikini, and went nude into the warm waters of the blue Caribbean.
I swam about and idly floated in the placid sea. I considered making a swim out to the island, but it didn't seem worth the effort. After half an hour or so, I floated in, scrambled over the rocks at the shallow shoreline, and skipped over to my towel. I lay down and stretched out to dry under the blazing midday sun.
I was lying there maybe ten minutes, when I heard some movement in the bushes. I sat up and looked about behind me. Nothing. Then there was a flurry of movement going crossways through the bushes.
I quickly stood up and shouted: "Hey, who's there?! "
I saw a small dark figure moving away from me along the line of trees. The figure tripped over something, and fell out into the open on the beach, about twenty yards from me. It was a small, black boy.
"Hey!" I ran over. He was starting to get up, holding his leg and wincing. He had scraped it good, and a stream of blood ran down from where his hand covered.
"Ooh, you're hurt," I said, hovering over him.
He looked up, very frightened, but not so frightened that he didn't stare dazedly at my red patch of crotch fur blowing in the wind just over his head. His eyes widened, and he gulped. He must have been about twelve or thirteen, short and thin.
"What were you running for?" I asked him. "No, lady, I am going home, that's all." I smiled at him reproachfully. "Were you spying on me?"
"No, no, lady, I not spying on you, I just going home." He didn't take his eyes off my pussy.
"Goodness," I exclaimed, "look at me! I better cover myself up ... " I guarded my bush with a hand, but only partially, letting enough curls stick out to make it even more sexy to his young eyes.
I shook my head at the bruise on his leg.
"We'll have to clean that or you'll get an infection. Come over here, I'll see if I've got a band-aid in my bag ... well come on."
He reluctantly, nervously followed me over. I walked a few steps ahead of him so he could watch the much acclaimed wiggle of my round fanny. I looked over my shoulder at him, but he didn't notice, for his gaze was indeed riveted to my rolling behind.
I kneeled down on the towel and went through my handbag. The boy stood over me, still wide-eyed. Finding a bandage, I applied it to his leg, and bade him sit down and rest it. He did, not saying anything more.
He was wearing a striped polo shirt, and black shorts, and was barefooted. I noticed now for the first time, as he was bending to sit, the petite bulge at his groin. What was that, his little pricky hard for me?
I decided such a compliment as that couldn't remain unrewarded. But slowly, mustn't frighten the lad.
I lay back on the towel, as if to continue my sunbathing, and closed my eyes, or appeared to. I closed them till the lashes covered them, and I peered through a fuzzy slit to observe the boy. Sure enough, he was staring. First he checked that my eyes were closed, and then, satisfied, examined H. Brady's bod.
My titties drooped roundly to their respective sides. The scarlet bush gleamed in the sunlight.
When I thought I had tantalized him enough, I said: "What are you thinking?"
"Huh? Nothin', " he said quickly.
"Not a thing?"
"Nope."
. "Aw ... aren't you thinking about my body, about this hair between my legs?" I stroked my pussy hair as I said it. "Come on, admit it."
"I, I can't help," he shrugged anxiously. "I never seen anything like it before."
"Well then, don't be bashful-touch it. Come on, give me your hand."
Well, I let him rub his hand over it. His prick bulge was now quite noticeable.
"Come on, get undressed," I suggested, "I'll let you fuck a full-grown woman."
He gulped, and leaned back from me.
"Well? I won't ask you twice, son."
He exhaled noisily. "Yes, yes. I'll fuck," he muttered dreamily, unclasping his shorts.
He got all his clothes off (he wasn't wearing underpants), and I looked him over. Very lithe, and looking new-born. He had just a smidgen of tightly curled black hair over his cock. The cock itself was quite nicely developed for its age. It stood up very stiffly, long and thin, looking like a black cigar. Unwrinkled and clean.
"Come on, get over me," I commanded.
It was obvious he didn't know the first thing he was supposed to do. Maybe he heard all about this wonderful game, but he'd never done it before. Imagine, a thirteen-year-old black virgin, and all mine to do with what I wished, on the solitude of that soft pink colored sand beach; sand the color of my cunt.
He was so small and thin, I could maneuver him easily as he lay between my thighs, like a live doll with a stiff prick. He couldn't fit it in the right spot, and so I held the skinny dick midway down and guided it up my hole.
It was difficult at first getting him going to the right thrusting rhythm for mutual satisfaction. That old saying that sex comes natural is a joke: most boys have the damndest time coming at all effectively their first time. I guess it has something to do with the changeover in technique from where they've been getting off previously to masturbation.
But here he was in good hands, and I got him working right, and even to bringing me to a nice hot climax. He was knocked out after he came, sol gave him his clothes and dismissed him. I stretched out in the sun. like a terrible ass-hole, I fell asleep, and when I awoke a couple of hours later, I was burned to lobstery proportions. I pained rather much to my slightest move. Slowly, ever so slowly I got dressed and inched my way to the road. The motorbike ride back was, to say the least, excruciating.
I was confined to my bed the next day, blistering awfully. Milos and Harry paid their respects, and my condition inspired the latter to several grotesque quips. Milos informed me we would be leaving the following morning, as he had seen everything he needed to, and wanted to get to L.A. and get casting under way, and other pre-production necessities moving.
We got to the airport in the dawn hours for the California-direct flight. We lounged somnolently in the waiting area till the p.a. system called "All passengers flight 701 to Los Angeles should now proceed to gate five for immediate boarding." Harry had Milos accompany him to the men's room to pop him with a hypo of his special batch of sedation medicine. (Harry also unpacked his Doctor's note saying he was a diabetic, in case any cops got heavy seeing him shoot up.) Anyway, our producer made it as far as his aisle seat on the jet, and-snap, conked out totally.
The flight was only about half full, it being way off-season for Jamaica, and there were only the three of us in first class.
Milos, looking quite as haggard, sleepy as I, was vaguely reminded to ask me, as we strapped in: "Do you, uh, by the way, have any ideas on casting?"
I yawned, and reclined my seat. "Oh ... Richard Winters might be interesting in it, for the lead."
"Winters ... yah, possibility. Know him?"
"Rather intimately," I yawned spaciously, and snuggled into my seat.
Dawn not being my usual waking time, I dropped off to a comfortable snooze soon after takeoff. I do not know how long I slept, for the extraordinary circumstances of my waking did not leave time for checking my watch or any such trivialities.
Suddenly we were hit. An explosion, a volcanic convulsion blew through the plane, with a whirring, screaming, deafening roar from the back, and bodies slamming into the partition wall behind us, with two flying past it out to the first class section, landing in heaps at our feet, their legs twisted up behind them over their backs. My seat belt was still on from takeoff, and thank God, luckily, or I too would have been propelled forward; as it was the belt so strained to near-bursting point. My ears popped painfully, and there was a terrible emetic sinking sensation, like you feel in your gut in an elevator that stops too fast-only about ten thousand times more intense. The air became instantly thin and frigid, and with the sinking I felt about to both choke and vomit.
There was pandemoniac shrieking from the tourist section. Milos, beside me, grasped my arm, but neither of us could speak, bur heads riveted tightly against the seat backs. Cold wind screamed through the aisle. It all became a blur, a dizzying blur as the plane seemed to spin in loops on an axis, down, down, down, the pressure nauseating, ripping at my stomach, through my lungs ... the plane shook in frenzied spasms, hurtling furiously downward ... a violent, earsplitting whistle rose up in the last moments before we hit down-BOOOOMMMM!
I was blown out of my seat and across the aisle, Milos flew over me, and we landed in a pile together at the front of the aircraft. Water immediately poured in along the floor, heaving at us in tiny waves from the tourist section. I tried to untangle myself. Every bone cried in fiery pain. My legs felt like jelly. I held myself up, panting, and gazing dazedly down the aisle. At the center of the plane flames played unbridled about a huge grotesquely jagged opening. A third of the middle of the jet was torn away!
Waves of water now were lunging in through the opening with great force and spray. The waves would subside for a moment then return in increasing size. The passengers who were still alive and able, were climbing madly, clawing their way through the hole against the battling obstacle of incoming water and the dying airplane swaying under and up in a heavy arc.
Milos pulled up beside me, breathing raggedly. He pointed to opposite us at the front pair of seats-the blonde stewardess lay on the floor there, in the rising stream, her head crushed near ' flat against her shoulders, a mash of wet blood and flesh.
Milos shouted hoarsely above the tumult: "I'm going to try ... try and open this door ... we, we can't go the other way, we'll be trampled, drowned ... the water's coming in fast, when it fills the plane'll go under ... "
He crawled over to the front door a step away, and rose shakily to his feet. He leaned against it for several seconds, gathering his strength.
The water was now over a foot deep and rising fast. Back at the opening, I perceived horrible panic ... people screaming, crying, tearing their way out of the plane as wave after wave broke across the crest of the gruesome aperture.
Milos untwisted the circular door handle. It held tightly, and he had to strain for half a minute till it popped up and around. Water pushed in as it opened.
I remembered Harry Arnagle then. "What about Harry?" I shrieked. "Where is he?"
I looked along the floor. Not there. Looking back further, I saw he was still strapped to his seat, flopped to one side, totally unconscious but apparently unhurt. Sleeping!
Milos shouted: "Forget it, forget it, he's zonked out on his dope ... he's a dead man-come on, let's go!"
We squirmed through the opening and fell into the rolling sea. It twirled us under deeply for a long moment before spewing us back up the undulating surface. We bobbed around wildly, clinging to each other against the buffeting wake.
Twenty yards from us down the flank of the aircraft, a dozen or so people were also trying to keep their heads above the water. Others stood at the edge of the hole in the plane, preparing to dive in.
The force of the wake from the bobbing disaster was very strong and kept pulling us down.
Milos said, between gulps and gasps: "I think ... we, we climb on top of the nose ... for a while, yes ... see what happens ... we have to get out of the water.".
We swam back at the plane, and were smacked against it from the wake. Painfully, Milos got himself up on the nose, while it plunged deeply under water and up again. As it came up, he pulled me with it and I tore my fingers into the hard wet metal and grabbed at Milos till we were both up on the center of the nose.
This section hit very hard on the crash. The windshield was smashed through, and inside, it was three-quarters full of water. The pilot and crew must all have been locked in there, dead now.
We climbed over the front windshield and up onto the top of the plane. The plunging, rolling movement of the aircraft in the water was even more dizzying from this position.
Milos pointed a finger out at the right. "Look!"
Over, I-don't-know, a half mile maybe, was another downed airplane, billowing smoke, lying on its side and, like this one, slowly dipping deeper beneath the waves. It seemed to be military, Navy. Quite evidently we had collided in mid-air with that bastard. Fucking hell.
I looked all about now, at the endless empty horizon lines, everywhere all around us. Out in the sea, at the side of the plane, men and women were struggling, swimming, drowning. A few lucky ones had found the time or tenacity to get their under-the-seat life jackets. But not many. Horribly, we had to watch as man after man, woman after woman, child after child, went under the churning sea for the last time. A dozen maybe, of the forty, fifty total, stayed up, stayed alive.
The aircraft lowered into the sea. Milos and I had to leap hack in and swim away as it turned slowly over and under, all the way down.
The waves knocked us around. Milos swam us back away from the deadly wake which was already carrying at least three of the too-near survivors with it.
Suddenly, what was our island in the blank expanse of sea, was no more and we were alone, on our own in the middle of it all.
NINE
The handsome, husky Greek sliced through my oozing pussy with his long, throbbing prick. I clawed at his back, digging my nails into those brawny muscles.
He moved faster, harder, chasing after his own climax. I closed my eyes and blocked out all the craziness of the morning. I thought only about the present, only about what I was feeling as this complete stranger fucked his cock in and out of my humid, horny cunt.
"Come, come! Do it!" I screamed at him.
And it was no sooner said than done. In a moment he groaned and his prick began to shoot its hot semen all through my insides. I shuddered and screamed.
When it ended we lay together tightly, gasping at each other. Then he rolled off.
"Must go back on deck now before someone sees me missing, okay, Miss?"
"Okay, Zorba," I said.
He left and I put on the robe the crew had given me when their freighter picked us up. I went down the corridor to the cabin where they'd put Milos.
I knocked and he called me in.
"Well," I said, "they tell me we will be reaching a Mexican port in a few hours. We can get a plane there."
"That's good," he said dreamily. "Are you all right?"
"I think so ... come over here and we'll find out."
I went over. He found the belt of my robe and pulled it, then loosened his own wrap. His prick was nearly erect. Of course.
He slid a hand up between my thighs. He smiled, finding my pussy quite moist. Of course.
"Come ... let's fuck," he said. And then, as I dropped my robe, "Strange things happen when I am with you, Helen."
"I'm just a sweet, old-fashioned girl trying to get along," I said, straddling him, settling down firmly.
