Fan magazines and biographies of film stars tell colorful, amazing tales of how major movie personalities come to be discovered. Some of these stories are straight out of the realm of fantasy, dreamed up by enterprising public relations people who know how to capture the publicity spotlight for their client. Others, some of the strangest sagas of all, are the truth. One popular star was discovered by a talent scout while she was having a soda at a corner drug store. One was seen by the right producer when she chanced to be a contestant on a daytime television quiz program.
Pat Norwicki was an abandoned child, brought up in orphanages and crowded group homes, always starved for love. She had no assets and no one to watch out for her. What she did have, however, was a beautiful face with a fetching look of innocence about it. This, coupled with a superb, sensually attractive body, was all she really needed once she met Bartley Jonas, freelance photographer. Once the photos were taken, once they fell into the hands of the right man, a powerful and lecherous Hollywood producer, young Pat was skyrocketed to instant success.
Only after she has been restructured by the studio experts, her past altered by skillful publicity people, her makeup designed by highly paid artists, and her wardrobe chosen for her by top Hollywood costumers, does she begin to realize that all the fame, all the glamour, and all the gold may not be worth the price.
She enthusiastically explores the readily accessible world of mind altering drugs and wanton, uninhibited sexual excess, only to find real danger from an unexpected source, a source she feels it hopeless to combat.
Pat's success brings with it immense vulnerability. As so many who have attained fame and fortune have discovered, she is an easy target for blackmail. What can she do? The answer to that question forms the climax of this terrifying novel of sex and sensuality.
-The Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
"Patty. Patricia, dear. Come up to the front of the store, will you, dear?" Mrs. Fenston's voice came crackling over the intercom. In the storeroom of Fenston's Feminine Fashions, Pat Norwicki swore under her breath and tamped out her cigarette. This was supposed to be her break, but, of course, that did not matter to Mrs. Fenston. She was the boss, and she never let anyone forget it. One thing Pat had learned in the few months she had worked at Fenston's was that when Mrs. Fenston called she had better come running. Even more annoying than that was the fact that the woman insisted on calling her Patricia. She had hated the name from the time she was a child. Well-meaning society women would come to the orphanage to play with the children. Sooner or later, one of them would always pat her on the head and say, "And how is our little Patricia today?" She was not theirs, and she knew it as well as they did. When the end of the afternoon came, the women went home to their families and to their warm, fragrant kitchens. Pat stayed with the rest of the orphans in the cold, drafty building, the county orphanage.
"Here I am, Mrs. Fenston," Pat said, hurrying to the front counter, an artificial smile on her lips.
"Ah, yes, Patricia, please take care of this gentleman. He wants a gift for his wife, and you're just about her size."
Pat knew the routine. She was supposed to hold the dresses, blouses, nightgowns up to her, giving the perplexed husband some idea of how his overblown wife might look in them. Chances are, the wife was about twice Pat's size, but Mrs. Fenston seemed to think it was good business to pretend, especially when it came to weight and clothing size. Often, the woman, flattered by her husband's buying her something too small for her, would bring it back to exchange. Then, in the clutches of Mrs. Fenston, she could be talked into something more expensive.
This particular customer, a puffy faced, overweight man of about fifty, looked Pat up and down quickly, his baggy, hungry eyes much too obvious.
"Can I help you?" she asked, as sweetly as she could.
"Why, yes. Something in a robe, perhaps. It's my wife's birthday."
"I'm sure we have something suitable. Follow me, please."
As they walked toward the back of the store, Pat could feel the man's eyes burning into her back. She did not trust him.
"Here," she said, taking a long, flowing robe with a high collar from the rack. "How is this?"
"Might be all right. Could you hold it up to you? I want to see how it'll look on. That's the way. Nice." He stepped forward until he was standing very near her. He reached out and put a hand to her waist. Pat stepped away expertly.
"Perhaps something in a lighter color," she said cheerfully, taking down a light pink, see through gown. "Would your little wife like this one?"
"I don't know," the man mumbled, obviously ignoring her reference. "Why don't you go slip into it, so I can tell better."
"Sorry, Sir, I can't do that. I'm on duty." Pat reached for another gown, her back to the customer. She heard him step forward and felt his hot breath on the back of her neck.
"What time do you get off?" he whispered. "Maybe you can wear it for me then. I'll buy it for you if you do." Pat felt her stomach flip. The idea of being nearly nude in front of this paunchy, lecherous male was disgusting. "Look," she said, turning on him suddenly, "maybe you better get somebody else to wait on you. I really don't think I can help you." Her eyes blazed with anger.
The man backed off at once. "Now, now, don't get upset. I was just kidding. You understand. I'll take that nightgown you're holding and the robe too. Just pack them up for me." A line of perspiration shown on his forehead. He was agitated and looked like he wanted nothing more than to get out of the store as quickly as he could.
Pat smiled at him triumphantly. "Of course, Sir. I'll have it ready in a minute, Sir." Picking up the two garments, she took them to the front counter, the customer following meekly behind.
After she had rung up the large sale and handed the man his packages, Pat drifted back to the storeroom. She had just earned herself a nice, fat commission, and there was nothing wrong with that. God knew she needed it, she thought resentfully. The tiny weekly salary Mrs. Fenston paid her was surely not enough to make ends meet. It hardly paid for her room at the boardinghouse, bought food, and took care of a few other necessities. Commissions helped, but not much.
Closing the storeroom door behind her, Pat sat down on the edge of a packing case and lighted another cigarette, determined to finish her interrupted break. The problem of finances was always with her. Granted, she was only eighteen, but there were plenty of expenses. Her friends were off at college or working at decent jobs, not clerking in some two bit local store. They had brains, ambition, connections. All she had was better than average looks and a good body. There must be a better way to use her assets than caging an occasional commission out of some fat, middle age man who could not resist the temptation of her slim waist and her superbly pointed breasts. She puffed at her cigarette and daydreamed about what it would be like to have a better paying job.
"Patricia!" Again Mrs. Fenston's syrupy voice came over the intercom.
With a sigh, Pat squashed her half smoked cigarette, smoothed her skirt over her trim thighs, and headed back for the front of the store. Waiting for her was another customer. About thirty, he was certainly a cut above the usual clientele. Tall and slim with a flashing smile, he was strikingly dressed in a camel hair color sweater that looked to Pat like cashmere, tight jeans made out of something that appeared to be buckskin suede, and soft, Italian loafers that had to be custom made. A silk scarf was knotted casually around his neck. Whoever the man was, he was a success. Appraising Pat with shining, light blue eyes, he gave her a slow, confident smile.
"May I help you please?" Pat asked, feeling suddenly nervous. There was something exciting in the way the good looking man stared at her.
"I hope so," he replied, his voice low and caressing. Pat felt gooseflesh go up her slim, smooth arms. "Something for your wife?" The man threw back his head and laughed lightheartedly. "No. No wife. I'm in kind of a bind. There's a certain color parasol I need, and I need it in a hurry."
"What color is that?" Pat wondered what on earth the man could want with a woman's umbrella.
"A bright orange, and it has to be semitransparent, sort of like organtly. Do you know what I mean?"
"Yes, I think so, but we carry nothing like that."
The man's face fell. "But I have to have it by this afternoon." Pat hesitated a moment, thinking. Then she said, "Maybe we can order it for you. Hestle's, one of the big fashion houses we deal with, carries a lot of specialty items like that. They're scheduled to make a delivery here this afternoon. Maybe we could call and have them send one along."
His face lit up. "That'd be terrific. I'd be ever grateful."
"Come with me. We'll have to go back to the storeroom and see if they carry parasols in their catalog."
"Where are you going, Patricia, dear?" Mrs. Fenston asked.
"To show this gentleman the Hestle's catalog. We'll be right back." She saw her employer's carefully plucked brow shoot up quizzically.
The stranger followed Pat to the back.
As soon as they were out of sight of the owner, he put his cool hand on Pat's shoulder. "I'm sorry to be so much bother to you," he whispered, his face very near her ear.
"No bother at all," Pat answered, making no move to get away. There was something about this man's touch that was different from the others. It felt good. It excited her. "Good," the man answered, pressing his fingertips into her shoulder. She could feel the caressing warmth of his breath on her cheek as he spoke, and she started to simmer inside. A shiver of arousal ran through her. Feeling touched by him was so good.
Pat stopped at the door of the storeroom and pushed it open. She stepped inside, the customer behind her, and looked around for the catalog. The man moved his steady hand slowly to the center of her narrow back. She gave another shiver. He moved up to massage the smooth, down covered skin at the back of her neck, touching it very lightly with just the tips of his fingers.
It was as if Pat were in a trance. She was not sure how she should react. She had never felt just like this before. All the other men who had touched her pawed at her demandingly, using her good looks and attractive body for their own lust. This man's cool hand seemed to worship her, soothe her, tell her it was going to be all right. She tried to think. She was eighteen. There was no reason for her to feel flustered. She should tell him to leave her alone, the way she did the other male customers who tried to put their hands on her. What really bothered her was that she did not want him to leave her alone. She was not sure exactly what she wanted. All she knew was she liked having him touch her.
"There's the catalog. Over there on the table," she said, pulling herself out of her reverie. Leaving the man, she walked over to the table and picked up the book. The customer came over to her, a sly smile wreathing his handsome mouth. As Pat opened to the page with the umbrellas, he put his fingers to the back of her neck again, this time running them down her deeply indented backbone. He stood very close to her, and Pat could feel the manly heat of his body. Again she shivered with excitement. Her whole body was responding to him now, and she could feel the familiar tingling in her loins, just the way it did whenever she caressed the area with her trembling fingers. She swallowed hard, trying to keep her mind on the catalog.
"Is this the kind of thing you had in mind?" she asked, her voice agitated. She pointed to a photo of a frilly parasol and tried to keep her finger from shaking. "That looks perfect!" His hand had not left Pat's quivering body. It was now at her waist, the fingers tickling casually at the sensitive base of her spine. She could feel the lightning nerves telegraphing his touch down through her firm, rounded buttocks and right into the depths of her moist, dark vagina.
"If I have Mrs. Fenston call for it now, it will be here this afternoon. If you'll step to the front with me, we'll ask her to take care of it." Pat made the statement with regret. It meant this exciting, completely private moment was over.
They went back to the front of the store, and Pat showed her employer the catalog. In her usual officious manner, Mrs. Fenston placed the call. Yes, they had the parasols in stock, and, yes, there was an orange one.
"It will be on the truck this afternoon. We will have it for you by four."
"Terrific!" the man replied, "but I'm not going to be able to come get it, I'm afraid. I have appointments all afternoon." His blue eyes looked worried.
"My, that is a shame," Mrs. Fenston said. Pat could tell the woman was afraid she might lose the sale. "Do you deliver, by any chance?" asked the suave man hopefully. "Not usually, but, perhaps, if Patricia would not mind dropping it by to you on her way home, we might be able to do it."
The customer looked at Pat pleadingly. "If you could do it for me, I'll make it worth your while. I'm desperate. Besides, it's only a couple of blocks away."
Wondering what he meant by making it worth her while, Pat answered, "Yes, I guess I could bring it."
"You may leave a few minutes early to do it, dear," Mrs. Fenston said, her voice sugary. "Wonderful," the man said, his eyes sparkling. "Here's my card. The address and phone number are on it. Thank you so much for helping me out. I have to get back now. See you this afternoon." Flashing Pat a white toothed smile that made her warm all over, he left the store.
BARTLEY JONAS, the card said. PHOTOGRAPHER. According to the address, the man had been right. His studio was only two blocks north of Fenston's. Pat worked impatiently through the rest of the morning, her thoughts continually going back to the handsome photographer and the way his caressing hands had felt. Perhaps, when she reached his studio ... But that was silly. He had simply been nice to a shop girl, nothing more.
When her lunch break came, she was not hungry. For some reason, her stomach was upset, nervously excited. Instead of eating, she decided to go for a walk. Needless to say, she had to get out of the store. Otherwise, Mrs. Fenston would keep calling on her to wait on trade, the way she always did when Pat was on her break.
Before she knew it, Pat was heading north. In a few minutes, she stood before a white door with a sign saying, BARTLEY JONAS. ONE FLIGHT UP. Well, she thought, at least he was telling the truth. But there was no reason to suspect that he would not be doing that, was there? This whole thing confused her, especially her reaction to it. All Jonas had r done was run his hands over her neck and back. The way she was acting, it was almost as though he tried to make love to her. She found herself wishing he would do just that. What would it be like, she wondered. The man was so sophisticated, so unlike any of the boys at school, the ones who were always trying to corner her beside her locker.
Whatever happened, Pat knew that she was very drawn to the well dressed, blue eyed photographer. There was an exciting gentleness about him, and, yet, at the same time, a sense of command. She had the feeling Bartley Jonas nearly always got what he wanted.
Back at the store, she could not keep her eyes from the clock. What if the delivery truck from Hestle's did not come? What if they did not have the orange umbrella after all? Even after the truck had arrived, and with it the parasol, Pat felt nervous. She put the parasol right in the center of the table in the store room, where she could look at it every time she went back there for something. It was beautiful, all frilly and elegant, a symbol from a world very different from the one she had known all her life.
It seemed that five o'clock would never come. Finally, at four, Mrs. Fenston said, "Patricia, remember to make that delivery. You may leave at four forty-five to do it if you like."
Big deal, Pat thought, fifteen minutes early. "Thank you, Ma'am," she said. She hurried the two blocks north, fidgeting impatiently at the stop lights, the umbrella clutched tightly under her arm. At last she reached the downstairs door of the studio. Looking at the name on the door, she was suddenly frozen. What was wrong with her? Granted, she did not usually make deliveries, but there was no reason for that to make her so nervous. Here she was, standing on the pavement, her heart pounding so frantically she could hardly hear the traffic. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door and mounted the long flight of steps to the second floor.
The door of Bartley Jonas' outer office was ajar. Peeking inside, Pat knew she was in the right place. Low tables and white ottomans were placed around the stark white walls, and framed photographs covered them.
Timidly, the teenager pushed the door open and walked into the empty office. She was not sure what she should do next. She clutched the furled umbrella and looked around the room. Some of the photos seemed familiar. There was one of a beautiful, blonde woman in a revealing [ evening gown that she knew she had seen in an ad for a major department store. Another, of a healthy looking girl with short, brown hair, was from a promotion for sports equipment. She held a tennis racket and smiled at the camera as though it were the most wonderful present she had ever received.
Pat could hear voices. They came from the half open door directly opposite the one through which she had entered. Stepping over closer to it, she listened carefully. Perhaps Bartley Jonas was busy with a client. Maybe she should just put the umbrella down and leave quietly. Her heart sank. She did not want to do that. Instead, she listened.
"Roll over toward me a little more, Babe. That's the way. Oh, yeah, they catch the light now. Beautiful. Arch your back a bit. Make 'em look big. That's what they like. Good. Aw, Christ, Baby, you've got some body!" r Pat could hardly believe her ears. What was going on in there, anyway? The voice, which she was sure belonged to Bartley Jonas, seemed excited, aroused. What was he talking about? She knew what it sounded like, but could that really be it? She should turn and run out of here as fast as her legs would take her. She should. She should.
Hardly letting herself think about what she was doing, Pat pushed open the door and looked into the studio.
CHAPTER TWO
"Hi," the photographer said, looking up from his camera and smiling at Pat. "I see you brought the umbrella. You're right on time. I was getting ready to use it. Wait outside a minute, and I'll be right with you."
"Let her come on in, Bar," said a woman's voice. Pat looked in the direction it had come from. There, lying in a large, rope hammock, was one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen, and she was totally naked. Pat caught her breath, her eyes wide.
"Weren't you the one who objected to visitors when you were working?" Bartley Jonas asked, a tinge of humor in his voice.
The model stretched languidly. "Sometimes, Bart, but not right now." Her dark brown eyes were on the girl in the doorway.
Smiling at Pat, Bartley Jonas shrugged his shoulders. "I guess it's okay for you to come in. My mistake." Hesitantly, Pat entered the room. She tried to keep her eyes away from the superbly built woman in the hammock, but it was very difficult. As she tried not to watch the model, the woman did everything she could think of to get her to look at her. She stretched and posed and ran her long, slim fingers up and down her shapely, tapered legs as if she were making love to her own gorgeous body.
"Where do you want me to put the parasol?" Pat asked, her voice sounding like it belonged to someone else.
"Just throw it over there in the corner, on top of the file cabinet. You can sit down and watch if you like. I'll be with you in a little while."
Pat wondered what he meant by that. Perhaps he intended to tip her for bringing the umbrella over as promised. She put the parasol on top of the four drawer file and sat down on a low stool, well out of range of the camera but positioned so that she could watch the model in the hammock. The woman was perfect in every way. Her long, dark hair shimmered in the studio lights. It was fluffy, healthy looking, and it cascaded to her smooth shoulders, half covering them like a sable wrap. Her face was punctuated by high cheekbones and heavy, carefully plucked eyebrows. Her eyes were huge and dark brown, and her lashes were very long and black. Her whole being radiated health. She smiled at Pat, and her teeth were so straight, white, and clean that they took the girl's breath away.
The model's body matched her face. Her skin was so smooth it looked like velvet. She was tall and willowy, slim without being the least bit bony. Her slimness made her rounded breasts look even larger than they actually were. Curved like beautiful, ripe melons, they stood up proudly on the woman's chest, and Pat caught herself longing to touch them, to run her fingers over their exquisite softness, to find out if they were as real as they looked.
How silly, she thought to herself. Why would such an idea even enter her mind? It was perverted, or at least people said it was. Somehow, seeing the woman's beautiful, boldly displayed body, the urge did not seem perverted in the last. Wanting to touch her seemed a very natural thing.
The woman's breasts were crowned by huge, perfectly round nipples, pinkish brown in color, their erect tips crinkly and large. Her waist was thin, almost small enough for someone to join their fingers around it, and her navel was so large and indented so deeply that it looked as if a person could get lost in it. Her hips flared lushly, soft and enticing. Again, Pat found herself wanting to run her cool palms over their smooth flesh, exploring every inch of it, perhaps causing the model to writhe with pleasure.
Even though it disturbed her to admit it, what really held Pat's attention was the vee of fleecy curls at the woman's groin. The hair was coal black and very shiny. She caught herself wishing the woman would spread her legs a little so she could get a glimpse of what the patch of lush fur was hiding. Was it as warm and secret, as fragrantly moist as her own long slit? Did she touch it at night, running her fingertips over its sensitive lips the way Pat did? Did others do that to her, men like Bartley Jonas?
The model's long legs had a shapely taper to them. Her knees were smooth skinned and dainty looking. Her calves swelled slightly and then narrowed to trim, well formed ankles and narrow feet. The long, well articulated toes looked to Pat as though they would be good enough to eat.
Horrified at herself, Pat wondered what ever gave her such a lewd, wicked thought. The dark model's body glimmered in the intense light of the studio. She had apparently been oiled with something to make her skin glow. The effect was exciting. Pat could not see enough. She would go on watching this forever if they let her.
"Okay, Babe," Bartley said. "Let's have you roll over onto your stomach now."
"Aw, come on. Have a heart. I was getting comfortable just like this. Besides, I don't think the kid's done cruising my tits yet."
Pat felt her cheeks burning. "Maybe I should leave now," she said quietly, getting up from the stool.
"Stay right where you are. Don't let Charlene get to you. She's got the filthiest mouth in the business."
"Why, thank you, Bart," the woman cooed. "I take that as a compliment."
"Shut up and turn over on your belly like I told you."
Sighing, the beautiful model turned over in the rope hammock. "Christ, it seems like everybody wants me on my belly nowadays."
"And you're only too happy to oblige. I know that from experience."
Charlene laughed. "You've got the photographs to prove it too, don't you? How's this?" Pat had no idea what they were talking about, but she did not take time to think about it. She was much too busy watching what was going on in the hammock. Charlene, her smooth, softly rounded buttocks in the air, jiggled them enticingly, flexing and loosening the muscles.
"Get the shots made, and let's get this over with," Charlene snapped. "These goddamn ropes are cutting right into my cunt."
"What of it? I thought you were into bondage. There is one problem, though."
"What's that?"
"I'm not getting enough shine from your back."
"Aw, shit, hurry it up, will you. I haven't got all night."
Bartley turned to Pat. "I'm sorry to have to ask this, but will you give us a hand?"
"Sure. I'd be glad to." As she got up, she realized there was fresh moisture between her thighs. She was overwhelmingly aroused just from watching the model move about in the hammock. How strange, she thought.
"There's a bottle of baby oil over on the table. Would you rub some on Charlene's back?" The blood pounding in her temples, Pat walked to the table and picked up the bottle of baby oil. As she unscrewed the cap, it slipped from her fingers and went skittering across the floor.
"It's okay, Baby, don't be nervous," Charlene called. "It's just like smearing oil on anybody. Pretend I'm your boyfriend. I won't mind that at all."
"Shut up, Charlene," Bartley said, chuckling. Her body trembling, Pat approached the hammock. She poured a little of the clear oil into the palm of her hand and stood looking down at the woman's smooth, bronzed back.
"Go ahead," the photographer said. "Spread some of it on her lower back." Pat moved as though she were in a daze. Slowly, watching her hands as if they belonged to somebody else, she spread the oil. Charlene's flesh was very warm and unbelievably smooth, just as Pat had known it would be. She felt it quiver excitedly as her hands moved over its surface.
"Ouuuuuuu, that tickles," Charlene said, giggling and squirming about.
"That looks good," Bartley said, squinting into the camera. "Now get some on her cheeks." Pat was ready to move to the woman's face when it dawned on her what the photographer was talking about. She hesitated for a quick moment and then decided to go ahead. All of this was so strange to her. Why not make the most of the experience?
Pouring more of the oil onto her hands, she focused her attention on the silken buttocks. Just then, the telephone in the outer office rang.
"Be back in a minute," Bartley called as he sprinted from the studio. Pat stood above the hammock, frozen with fear, her eyes still riveted to the light brown buttocks. There was an exciting tuft of dark hair at the top of the model's long, sensitive crevice, and it reminded Pat of the bush she had seen surrounding the woman's genitals. She surveyed the dark, moist looking crack wondering what it might be like to run the tips of her fingers along it, perhaps to actually touch the convolutions of the tiny, super sensitive opening of the woman's anus. What would Charlene say if she did something like that? It might shut her smart mouth for her.
"Come on, Kid. What'cha waiting for, Christmas?" Stretching languidly in the hammock, the model looked like a sleek skinned, lithely muscular panther.
"Nothing, Miss. Nothing at all."
"Listen to you! Miss, she says. You'd make some man a good slave. Have you ever been into that? It's exciting, once you get used to it." She wriggled her buttocks enticingly. Pat moved her hands over the woman's flesh, hardly taking time to feel the tingly smoothness of the tanned skin. She did not dare let herself do that. It was too exciting. Anger welled up within her suddenly. The model had been treating her sarcastically ever since the moment she came in. She may not be very sophisticated, but she did not deserve that. She began pinching and pummeling the woman's spongy buttocks, kneading the oil into them mercilessly.
Instead of acting as though this treatment hurt, Charlene raised her bottom higher, eager for more. Soft, low groans came from her straining throat, and she squirmed about salaciously. At last, Pat pulled back.
"Did you get some down in my crack?" Charlene asked.
"What?" Pat asked, unable to believe her ears.
"You have to get some of the oil down between my ass cheeks. It gives that extra glow to the photos."
"Oh, yeah, sure," Pat said. Could she do it? Was she capable of reaching down into the dark warmth of the woman's pulsating cleft. Her heart pounded so loudly she could scarcely think.
"Go ahead," Charlene said coaxingly. "It's clean. I always make sure of that. You never know who might want to use it." The model chuckled coarsely at her lewd joke. Again, Pat felt anger. She did not understand this humor, and she resented that. There was something else, too, a sense of excitement she had never known before. With quivering fingers, she began spreading the oil, starting at the top of the dark crack and moving down, traveling along the length of the deep, hairless cleft.
Charlene cooed happily and again lifted her buttocks, opening and exposing the tenderest part of her body to the girl's touch. Pat could hear Bartley Jonas still talking on the telephone. For the time being, at least, she and Charlene were alone. She could do whatever she liked, and no one but the two of them would ever know. Gasping at her own boldness, she let her hand probe lower and deeper. Suddenly, she felt it. She was touching the model's tightly constricted anal opening. With a tiny groan, Charlene spread her legs as wide as she could, inviting Pat to explore further. The teenager's fingers moved as if they had a mind of their own. She held her breath excitedly while they moved back and forth over the woman's tiny anus.
"Hmmmmmmmm, that feels soooo-ooooo good!" Charlene whispered, her voice rife with passion. She writhed from side to side in the hammock, lifting her body to invite the girl onward.
Pat could not take her fingers away. She could not catch her breath. She could not think. She could not even move, except for her ever exploring fingertips. They stretched and pulled at the burning hot, rubbery feeling entrance to the woman's body, and Pat could see the opening twitching with passion. She pushed into it slightly, and Charlene let out a passion-edged groan, a sheen of perspiration breaking out on her lithe, excited body.
"Aw, shit, that feels soooooooooo good. Dig your fingers in a little bit more. Use your nails. Oh, yeeeeeeeeah! I love it. I love it so much!"
As though she were hypnotized, Pat moved her trembling fingers forward. The smooth, warm moistness of the woman's rectal opening was overwhelming. This was the most exciting thing she had ever done in her whole life. Nothing could stop her. She was like a different person. Her fingers probed and pushed in deeper. The beautiful model wriggled beneath her touch, soft cries of passion issuing from her full, partly open lips. Pat was in control. She had total power over this gorgeous, spectacularly beautiful creature. For the first time in her life, she was calling all the shots. Her very touch brought deep, sensual pleasure. Charlene would do anything she asked her to do at this moment, anything.
Bartley hurried back into the room.
"Sorry to be so long on the phone," he called out. Then he stopped, struck by the scene before him. Pat drew back, suddenly filled with guilt. She glanced down at her slim fingers, half expecting to find them streaked with brown. They were only oily. She was shaking all over, and she felt faint.
"Well," the photographer said, chuckling, "I see you girls have been getting acquainted."
"We were doing fine until you interrupted us, you prick!" Charlene snarled.
"No reason to let me stop you. I've seen everything there is to see and taken pictures of most of it. That gives me an idea. How'd you two like to make some extra money?"
"Doing dyke shots, you mean?" Charlene asked.
"Right. I got a client, a big movie producer, who's dying for some. He keeps after me all the time to sell him as many as I can get my hands on."
Charlene stretched lazily. "It's fine with me. You know that. I don't know about the kid here, though. She seems kind of skittish." Pat wanted to pinch herself. This was all some sort of strange dream. Could they actually be proposing what she thought they were? Did they really want to take pictures of Charlene and her doing things to each other. She was not even certain what lesbian women did. She had some idea, of course. There was no way a girl could grow up in a series of orphanages and foster homes and not know something about what sometimes went on between women. She just never let herself think about it, that was all. Now she remembered all those nights in the foster homes, sharing a saggy single bed with some other girl about her own age. She would awaken in the middle of the night to find her warm pussy throbbing with life, the other girl's backside pressing hard against hers. Maybe she could respond sexually to another woman. She would never know if she did not allow herself to try.
"What do you say, Patricia?" Bartley Jonas asked, remembering the name Mrs. Fenston had called her by back at the store.
"Why not?" she answered boldly, "And my name is Pat."
CHAPTER THREE
"Take your clothes off, and let's have a look at you," Bartley said.
"Right here, in front of both of you?" Pat asked, suddenly afraid again.
"Of course. We don't bite. I take that back. Charlene bites sometimes. Don't you, Honey?"
"Only if they seem to like it. Look, Pat, I'm already naked, and you don't see me getting embarrassed about you looking at me, do you?"
"No, I guess not," Pat answered. There was a lot more the woman did not seem to get embarrassed about either, she thought to herself.
"Then go ahead and strip." Trembling still, but knowing she wanted to do it, Pat kicked off her sandals. Her fingers caught at the hem of her short sleeved sweater, and she pulled it slowly upward, revealing her concave stomach and clearly defined ribcage. Both the photographer and his model let out a gasp as her exquisitely shaped, sharply pointed breasts came into view. While not huge in size, they were large for one as slim as she, and they stood out proudly with no hint of a sag. The reddish pink nipples covered the ends of them, and they were already enticingly erect with excitement. Pat pulled the sweater off over her head and threw it aside. She tossed her dark hair, letting it flow over her back and shoulders.
"Beautiful" Charlene whispered, her tone filled with admiration and lust. With trembling fingers but with more confidence than ever before in her life, Pat opened the zipper of her skirt. Through the slits of her half closed eyes, she watched the two people who were staring at her. They were obviously enthralled with her. Bartley Jonas licked his lips salaciously. The evidence of his arousal was clearly outlined in the leg of his suede pants, and it looked long and incredibly thick. It was all that way because of her Pat thought. She saw Charlene's long, slim fingers go instinctively to her loins. The beautiful woman splayed her legs wide, and the tips of her fingers played along the already swollen lips of her pussy. For the first time, Pat caught a glimpse of it. The pink folds of it looked soft and moist, folding in on one another again and again. She could hardly believe anything could be so inviting. Her mouth was watering. She wanted it. There was no longer any doubt in her mint. When she and the model got close to one another this time, she would do a lot more than run her fingers into Charlene's trembling anus. Wantonly, she pushed her skirt down over her softly flaring hips. It fell into a pool at her feet, and she stepped out of it. Now she wore nothing but her tiniest bikini underpants. She stretched her slim arms high above her head, then rotated her hips lewdly, entertaining them, showing them how aroused she was, how ready for whatever was to come next.
Bartley let out a low whistle. His hand was rubbing his crotch now, tracing the length of his leather covered penis, his breathing so heavy it seemed to fill the room with its sounds.
"Hurry up, Baby," Charlene moaned. "Get those little panties off and come over here before I come just from watching you." Smiling at them lasciviously, Pat hooked the tips of her fingers under the elastic band of her panties. Slowly, twisting her hips from side to side, she pushed her bikini downward, over the smooth skin of her silky thigh, on down to her knees until the pants fell to her trim ankles. She stood looking at the two people, her supple, young body completely revealed. She was wonderfully slim and lithe, her body hairless except for the sparse patch of dark fuzz in the vee of her crotch. Through it, her moistly pouting cunt lips were clearly visible. Beads of musky wetness studded them, revealing the extent of her excited arousal.
"God," Bartley whispered, "You're so fresh, so exciting. I just can't believe it. Come over here to Charlene. I've got to get all the photos I can of you." Without even waiting for Pat to move, he began clicking pictures. With the grace of a young cat, she moved across the room to the hammock.
Lying in the hammock, Charlene raised her arms to the girl, and Pat knew instinctively how to begin. She leaned down and kissed the woman, planting her full, warm lips directly on Charlene's. The model responded at once, sensuously, wholeheartedly. Her mouth squirmed against Pat's lips, and Pat reached down to wrap her arms around the woman's supple body. They clung to each other, letting out small, mewling cries as the camera continued to click away.
Charlene let her cool palms roam up and down Pat's bare back, feeling out the youthful muscles, every movement opening up new zones of excitement for the girl. With her thick, wet tongue, she pushed against Pat's quivering lips. The girl let her mouth open a little, and Charlene delved into it, tasting the utter sweetness of Pat's spittle, sucking it into her own mouth, rolling her tongue around inside the girl's willing, excited body.
Pat lifted her tongue to respond, tickling gently at the underside of the woman's wildly probing organ. This seemed so right, so completely satisfying. How could she have missed it for so long? There had been plenty of chances, she could see now. It would have been so easy at the orphanage, in the group homes. The counselors and foster parents watched like hawks, but always to make sure the boys and girls did not get together. It would have been so simple to do what she was doing now with the other girls. They were as close as the same bed, and she had never really suspected the possibilities. A memory suddenly welled up within her. She had been staying at a group home. There were eight girls there, and it was crowded. One night she was awakened with an overwhelming urge to urinate. On tiptoe so as not to disturb anyone, she flipped down the hall to the bathroom. Pushing open the doors, she saw two of the older girls, skinny, underfed children of the streets. They were kissing, running their hands over one another's nude bodies, just as she and Charlene were doing now.
"Get out of here," one of them, a peaked faced blond, snarled at her. "Go back to your bed and leave us alone." The next morning, Pat was punished for wetting the bed. The picture of the two girls was so clearly burned into her mind that the whole thing could have happened the night before. Yet, until this moment, she had never let herself really understand what it was they were doing.
Pat pulled Charlene closer, kneeling down beside the hammock. Their firm, silky smooth breasts rubbed against each other, and they both gasped as fresh jolts of raw passion rushed through their bodies. They kissed and kissed, never breaking the loving hold even to breathe. All the time the camera clicked in the background.
"Get into the hammock with Charlene," Bartley ordered, his voice tight with passion. Her every movement a symphony of open sexuality, Pat lay down in the hammock, stretching her body out against that of the model. The ropes bit into her flesh and made her feel even more acutely alive, more open to new sensations. She felt ready for anything, everything. She pushed her hot, perspiring body against Charlene and felt herself sliding against the oil. She touched the woman's breasts, and Charlene arched her back enticingly, inviting her on.
The photographer moved about, catching the two of them from every possible angle, and they began to move together, sliding against one another, kissing again, their mouths opening hungrily to devour hotly squirming tongues.
Suddenly, Charlene's hand was moving. It ran slowly, sensuously down Pat's squirming body, finding all the secret places, lingering over her firm, rubbery breasts to pinch at her already erect nipples. Pat groaned deep in her throat, the animal sound of it surprising her.
The hand continued, smoothing over the supple flesh of her concave belly, making her whole body tremble hotly. Then, suddenly darting quickly, the hand moved directly to the plump little cleft of Pat's pussy. She gasped, the tingling in her cunt reaching a new pitch. Charlene began to buff the quivering mound lightly with her palm, feeling the moist drops oozing from the tightness of Pat's crack. The whole area was sizzling hot, ready for action. Pat sobbed and wept with lewd excitement.
Charlene moved expertly, getting out of the swinging hammock. She knew exactly what she wanted to do. More than that, she knew Pat was now so aroused she would go along with it. "Roll over," she ordered, her voice rough and-edged with passion.
Immediately, Pat did as she was told. She turned herself in the hammock, her pert, rounded buttocks in the air. Again, the ropes gnawed at her youthful flesh, and she giggled as her hard breasts tried to poke lewdly through between the weave. She felt vulnerable and strong, ready for anything, her whole body attuned to sexual response.
Charlene got to the floor. Quickly, she scooted beneath the hammock. Before Pat could figure out what she was up to, the woman's fingers were on her dripping mound again, pushing the ropes aside, pulling the rise of her sizzling cunt down between them, letting it hang there like fresh fruit ready to be picked. She raised her head, mouth open, and clamped it over the teenager's leaking pussy.
Pat let out a scream of excited pleasure. A vortex of sensation began in her jiggling cunt and spread throughout her body, right to the tips of her fingers and toes. She squirmed in the hammock until it swung so wildly Charlene could hardly keep her mouth where she wanted it. She reached up commandingly and stopped the swinging.
Her lips burned over the length of Pat's hair-edged cleft. She licked at it frantically, running her tongue over a thousand screaming nerve endings and making the girl sob with pleasure. The tip of her questing tongue worked its way between Pat's pouty cunt lips, their edges swollen and red with the fresh, hot blood that was pumping urgently into the area. She felt the tongue moving into her interior, squirming, licking, eating at the base of her soul. She felt wicked, depraved, wonderful. She pushed downward in the hammock, offering everything to the woman, asking her to take her completely, begging her to drive her to climax. She whimpered with senseless excitement. Charlene's tongue was so hot, so wet, so demanding. She loved it.
Pat groaned loudly as the model sucked at her openly exposed twat. She splayed her legs wide, so wide, and her muscles hurt, but she did not care. She was getting what she wanted, what she needed, what she had to have. The wetness of the woman's tongue overwhelmed her, and now she could feel that Charlene was pumping saliva into her and then sucking it out again, Pat's free flowing cuntal juices along with it. She gurgled and mewled with pleasure. Her entire groin throbbed with life. The intensity of this experience seemed impossible, and yet, here she was, in the middle of it. Her body was screaming out its response. She held her breath, trying to keep from coming. This had to go on and on and on until she had experienced the deepest parts of it. She lay in the hammock, her taut buttocks quivering with passion, and she could hear the camera clicking above her. Charlene ran her smooth fingers up and down along Pat's soft inner thighs, adding a whole new feeling to her raw, passion-edged excitement.
The model was using her tongue like a tiny cock now, pistoning in and out, up and down, forcing the wetness of it into Pat's tight, slippery pussy. The dark curls of the teenage pubis tickled at her nose, and she inhaled deeply through flaring nostrils, taking in the aroma of Pat's trembling crotch. Her mouth was filled to overflowing with the salty sweetness of female juices, and she wanted to go on eating it forever. She pulled away for a moment, catching her breath before going on.
"Aw, eat me. Please, please eat my cunt!" Pat begged, her voice ragged with raw passion. She wriggled about in the hammock, causing it to swing again with the urgent movement of her young body.
Hearing how desperate her willing young victim was, Charlene decided to tease her a little, to excite her more completely, to raise her to an impossible, cunt bursting pitch of passion. She brought her tongue to the place where Pat's thigh and crotch joined. Flicking it over the smoothness of the flesh she soaked her with her saliva, finding new, secret places she had not touched before, touching nerve endings Pat did not even know were there.
The girl moaned with pleasure, tossing her head from side to side, all thoughts of being in control of the situation gone. She was the beautiful model's slave, captivated by her sucking mouth and demanding tongue.
Charlene moved again to the mouth of the girl's vagina. She ran her tongue along its length, licking hotly between its swollen lips. Pat had no defense against the wet, writhing invader, and she wanted none. Her moans took on a higher pitch, and she could feel the lush, syrupy, feminine juices flowing from deep within her passion wracked body. She was more excited and aroused than ever in her life.
"Make me come! Please bring me off!" she whimpered, her eyes tightly closed. She knew she was teetering on the brink of a crashing, mind blowing climax. Charlene sucked, pulling the soft, yielding flesh of the teenager's pussy into her mouth, working it with her lips, again running her tongue deep within its taut, pouty lips. Deliberately, she tantalized it with her burning body heat, and Pat felt as though her whole body had been thrust into a super hot furnace. She could feel the hotness of the woman's soft, supple lips against her sensitive cunt flesh, taking her in, working against her vaginal walls, taking her completely. She was melting with the heat, perspiration dripping from her slim body onto the woman beneath her. Her head pounded wildly, and all rational thought was gone. She was now a completely physical creature.
Through passion glazed eyes, Charlene looked up at the girl in the hammock. She gazed at the pert breasts with their brownish, swelling nipples. It amused her the way they poked through the large holes in the weave of the hammock. She looked at the deeply indented navel, and wished there was time to run her tongue into it to taste the saltiness of the delightfully enclosed flesh. Right now, though, there was a more exciting taste waiting for her. She knew from the way the girl was gasping for breath that before much longer she would be drinking down the sweetness of her youthful flow. She continued sucking Pat's sizzling cleft, tracing over every inch of silky flesh, wetting down the sparse bush that covered its mounding edges, loving the beauty of its quivering surface.
With one quick stab, she touched the girl's throbbing clitoral bud, and Pat went mad with passion. She screamed, rocking the hammock wildly, her buttocks juggling and flexing with excitement. Charlene nibbled, kissed, licked and tickled at it, doing everything at once and driving Pat over the brink of utter fulfillment. An even deeper moan escaped her gaping lips, and she spread her legs wide, offering herself completely.
Charlene pumped warm, slippery saliva into Pat's flaming crack, and Pat felt as though she might faint with raw passion. She could no longer handle any of this. It was too much, too far beyond anything she had ever experienced. She floated somewhere high above the Earth, away from daily concerns. This should go on forever, for all of her life never stopping, never ending. If she died of passion, it would all be worth it. Every nerve and sinew in her taut body was attuned to her pussy. Every part of her throbbed in rhythm to it.
With a sudden, body wracking moan, Pat climaxed. Charlene felt the deluge begin. The hot wetness spattered into her hungrily sucking mouth, onto her cheeks, against her scabbling fingers. She sucked down as much of it as she could, glorying in the hot, musky taste of it. The female liquor flowed plentifully, and she could hardly believe the girl had so much of it to give. It tasted so good, so sweet, so youthful. Charlene gulped greedily, licking and sucking at Pat's spasming cunt until she had every drop.
When it was over, Pat lay in the hammock, whimpering with exhaustion, her mind still reeling.
"Christ!" Bartley Jonas exclaimed, "was that something. If I don't sell these shots, I'll be surprised.
"Well, I hope you sell them soon," Charlene grunted as she crawled out from under the hammock, "I need the money."
"Don't worry. You'll get a check as soon as I make the sale."
"Excuse me while I take a shower. I seem to have cunt juice all over my face," the model said, grinning. She gave Pat a lewd wink and left the room. "You know something?" Bartley said, turning to Pat, who was still trying to catch her breath, "You have a real talent, so young and so uninhibited. That should really come across in the photos."
"Thanks," Pat said, smiling wanly at him.
"Tell me, can you be like that with men too, or you just into women?"
Pat found herself shocked at the bluntness of his question. "This was my first time with a woman. I'm not a lesbian, if that's what you mean."
"That's what I was hoping to hear. How would you like to spend the night with me?"
CHAPTER FOUR
Pat soon discovered that Bartley Jonas had an apartment that adjoined his studio. The place was small, only a large living room with a couch that pulled out to form a king-size bed, a compact kitchen, and a bathroom. Even though the space was minimal, it was exquisitely decorated, all whites and beiges, velvet and leather.
As soon as Charlene had left, Bartley said, "How about a drink and some dinner? Maybe you'll want to have a bath while I fix it." Almost floating in the air, Pat followed him into the bathroom. This was another world, so completely different from the one she had known that she hardly believed it existed outside dreams and movie magazines.
The tub was sunken and faced with marble. Two wide steps led down into it, and on them were tall bottles of bath salts, oils, and all the other special additions that turned a bath from a necessity into a luxury.
With the nude, still exhausted girl standing over him, Bartley turned on the gold taps and began to fill the huge tub with steaming water.
"This will pep you up," he said. "After all, you need your energy. You and I have the whole night ahead of us." He gave her a wink.
Pat giggled suddenly. "You know, I just thought of something. We never did get around to taking any pictures showing the orange parasol." He laughed. "Hey, that's right. I forgot about it. We'll get around to it. Don't worry." He turned off the taps. "Crawl into the tub and relax. I'll put some oil in to make it smell nice. Pick out the one you want."
Pat sniffed tentatively at the various liquids. "This one," she said at last, handing the man a bottle of sweet, musky smelling oil.
"An excellent choice. This one clings to a woman's skin. You'll smell good all night long." He poured a stream of the amber fluid into the water.
Pat smiled at him. "That'll be nice. I want to smell good for you." Bartley looked at her sharply. "Careful not to get hung up on a guy like me. Our arrangement is strictly business. Understand? Business with a little mutual sexual pleasure thrown in. Okay?"
"Okay," Pat answered, feeling a strange pang deep inside. She slipped into the tepid water and let it soothe over her sexually spent body. She lay back in the tub, her eyes closed, hardly able to grasp the fact that she was in the middle of such luxury.
"Here," Bartley said, handing her a stemmed goblet, "time for something to drink."
"What is it?" Pat asked as she opened her eyes. She had actually been dozing in the water. From the other room, she could smell food. For the first time she realized she was hungry, ravenous.
"It's champagne, of course. Drinking anything else in the bathroom is barbarous. You do like champagne, don't you?"
"I don't know. I've never had it." She took the glass.
The photographer threw back his head and laughed. "My God! You're wonderful. Absolutely perfect. How lucky we were to find you."
Pat sipped at the bubbling liquid. It tickled her nose, and she loved the taste of it.
"So, whenever you're ready, Madame, dinner is served. You'll find fresh towels on the rack and a warm robe in the closet. I'll be waiting in the living room."
"I thought maybe you'd want to take a bath with me," Pat said, smiling up at him coquettishly.
The man chuckled. "Some other time. Right now, I'm hungry. Hurry it up, okay?" He left her alone again. Rinsing off the soapsuds, Pat climbed lazily out of the marble tub. Boy, if the kids back at the orphanage could see me now, she thought. She dried herself quickly and wrapped a towel around her long, black hair. Glancing in the full length mirror, she posed for a moment. She looked good, slim, lithe, ready for action. Her complexion was good too, she thought to herself. Now that the model and Bartley Jonas had made such a fuss over her, she was taking a whole new look at herself. What she was finding was that she had plenty to offer. If going to bed with people like Jonas was what it took to get ahead, she was ready to do it. At least it would get her out of Fenston's Feminine Fashions, and she wanted that more than anything she could think of. They dined on crisp, fresh lettuce salad, sauteed mushrooms, and tenderloin steak, thicker than any Pat had ever seen. She tried to eat slowly, savoring every bite, but it was difficult. She was very hungry and everything tasted so good, especially since it was accompanied by plenty of champagne. By the time they finished dinner, Pat felt even more wonderful than she had before. Bartley's voluminous, furry bathrobe hugged about her, she sat before the fire, sipping the smoothest brandy she could imagine.
Battley sat close beside her, his arm around her shoulder. She leaned against his muscular chest, feeling the hardness of his body through his clothing. This was wonderful, like her wildest dreams come true. She felt pampered, cared for. How unlike her past experiences with men and boys this was. All those times wrestling in the back of some battered old car until she finally gave in, pretending she had not wanted to all along. They were rough too, those men. They had no idea how to treat a woman. No one had ever taught them.
Bartley Jonas knew. He made love to them all day long with his camera. She was sure he would act the same way tonight. Pat snuggled against the man's body and sighed happily. Slowly, almost casually, Bartley's hand moved into the front of the robe. With cool fingers, he touched the satiny skin of her breast. Pat held her breath. Already she was beginning to tingle all over. She was ready, so ready. Being eaten to climax by Charlene had only paved the way. Now she wanted the real thing, a man's fully erect organ. Only that would quiet the hunger she felt deep down inside her sensitive body.
The photographer's palm cupped her right breast, and Pat let out a little cry of excitement. His fingers pressed into her flesh, and she arched her back slightly, pushing against his hand. She turned her head, and their lips met, softly, passionately, his mouth working against hers, exciting her, making her blood simmer with passion. She could already feel her warm, dark pussy beginning to grow moist. She knew it was readying itself for him, lubricating its narrow lips so that his hugely inflated penis would slide in easily.
She squirmed against the photographer's hard body, soft, mewling cries coming from her throat. Her lips opened part way, pushed by his insisting tongue. The hot, wet tip of it raked across her straight, white teeth and tickled at her sensitive gums. Groaning deep in her throat, Pat opened her mouth, and Bartley's questing tongue glided into it. It felt huge inside her mouth, squirming and writhing and tasting of her sweet saliva. She brought her tongue up to tickle its underside, and it was Jonas' turn to moan. The two of them pressed against one another, their tongues dueling hotly.
The man caught Pat's already erect nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He pinched it. Pat gave a gleeful little grunt, pleased at the momentary pain. It made her feel alive, let her know all that was happening was more than a fantastic dream. She loosened the belt of the robe and let it fall away from her shoulders, presenting her half nude body to Bartley as if he had not already had plenty of chance to examine it in detail.
He looked down at her swellingly proud breasts. "Beautiful," he whispered. "Perfect. I want to make love to you very slowly, and very completely."
"Why don't you take your things off now?" Pat whispered. "The fire's so nice and warm you'll never miss them."
His eyes on the semi nude girl, he stood up. Slowly and deliberately, he peeled off his cashmere sweater, revealing a muscular chest with blocky pectorals crowned by two perfect, brownish nipples. Small strands of hair swirled around them and met in a tee at the center of his chest. From there it traveled down over his washboard belly to swirl again about his large, deeply indented navel. It disappeared at his belt line.
Bartley opened the heavy brass buckle of his belt, and his fingers reached to find his zipper tab. Pat looked up at him, shivering, hunger written in her eyes. Slowly, he ran down the zipper, and Pat caught sight of his lush pubic curls. They were lighter than his hair, almost blond. The girl imagined she could already detect the exciting, earthy scent of male crotch in the air.
The photographer pushed his suede pants down over his narrow hips. His huge, fully erect penis sprang into view. It slapped up against his flat stomach and then stood straight out in front of him, pointing directly at Pat. She let out an excited gasp. It was the most beautiful male organ she had ever seen, and it seemed exceptionally large and thick. The purplish knob was several inches around, and it looked to her like the head of a club. The slit in it was long and deep, and already a large drop of clear liquid was oozing from it. Pat wondered what it would taste like, and she felt the saliva begin to run inside her mouth. Perhaps, before they were through, she would even taste his semen. Pat had tasted male sperm before, of course, but never willingly. This time, she would consider it an honor, that is, if she could get her mouth around that hugely distended knob.
The base of Bartley's cockhead was surrounded by soft, pink folds of skin, and its shaft was nearly as thick as the head. Blue veins stood out harshly against the pinkness of the skin.
"You like it?" the man whispered, his voice low and tight with desire. Pat shook her head dumbly. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She breathed deeply. Now she really could smell the sexy odor of his phallic giant, and the smell went straight to her groin, causing her sizzling cleft to ooze more syrupy fluid.
Bartley stepped out of his leather jeans and stood before her, his fists on his hips. He could tell the girl worshipped his body, and he loved the feeling. Smiling down at her, he stroked his huge prick lazily. His eyes burned into her, and she was overjoyed to be naked with him. She licked her full, trembling lips lasciviously.
"You want to eat me?" the man whispered. Not saying a word, Pat slipped to her knees, holding out her arms to the man. He stepped up to her, smiling in triumph. The aroused girl stared openly at the magnificent male organ, and again she licked her lips, her warm, pink tongue tip traveling over them quickly, salaciously.
Bartley thrust his pelvis forward, his gonads swinging lewdly in their hair studded sac, the huge bulk of his phallic trophy arching out over them. His passion glazed eyes were on Pat's little rosebud of a mouth. She was intent on sucking him, and he could hardly wait.
Leaning forward, Pat brushed her warm, smoldering lips against the inner part of the man's hairy leg. She caught the movement of his cock as it jerked excitedly in response. Impossible as it seemed to her, the giant was growing even longer.
She moved steadily over the hot flesh of his inner thigh, feeling the soft warmth of it, inhaling the clean, sexy odor of the man. He was so different from the others. Most of them did not bathe often, and the stench of dried ball sweat, old urine, and stale cum would nearly gag her. Bartley smelled fresh, manly, good.
Before long, her face was buried in the fragrant hair at the side of the man's pulsing organ. She touched the base of it with the very tip of her wet tongue, and she could feel his heart beating excitedly inside his body. She traced the root of one of the thick, bluish veins, the blood throbbing within it. If she just nipped it open with her sharp little teeth, he would bleed to death. Again, as she had this afternoon, Pat felt powerful. She could make this handsome male do anything she wanted him to do, all because she was performing sexual service.
Her velvet lips slid over the smooth flesh of the man's penis, moving from its thick root to its burgeoning tip and back again, feeling and kissing every ridge and vein, her tongue flicking over its smoothness, making Bartley quiver from head to foot.
Soft moans of raw passion escaped his lips, and he reached down to run his fingers through her long hair. Pat lapped excitedly at his smooth cock flesh, leaving a long, wetly hot trail of saliva along the length of it. She played her tongue over it again and again, laving the throbbing glans, wetting it down completely, taking in the taste of its musky surface.
"Eat me, oh, yessssss! Suck me good, Baby!" Bartley moaned, tossing his head from side to side, nearly out of his mind with passion. He twisted his fingers in her long, silken hair, encouraging her to go on, to explore with her flaming tongue, to clean every inch of his surface sweetness. His sinewy body felt totally relaxed. He experienced only the effects of the insisting tongue and ovaled lips. He wondered how it would be to fuck Pat. She was so young. She would be tight, painfully tight. Wonderful, he thought. It took someone young and hot and hungry for sex to satisfy him.
Pat brought her lips again to the tautly engorged head of Bartley's penis. Her jaws hurt as she stretched her mouth open as wide as she could. She pressed forward until the entire cockhead was inside her. She could feel its throbbing life force, and she brought her long, slim fingers up to caress his hugely distended, cum laden testicles. Throwing his head back, the photographer gave a low, animalistic moan. He moved his penis in and out between the girl's lips until the tip of it ached with the friction.
Spreading his trembling legs even wider apart, he moaned, "Fuck me with your finger. Now!"
It was hard for Pat to believe her ears. None of the men she had known before would ever allow a woman to invade them in this way. They would have considered it unmanly. Still, she knew from the experience of this moment, there was nothing unmanly about Bartley Jonas. The throbbing hotness of his cock in her mouth proved that he was all male.
Trembling, excited beyond belief, Pat moved her fingers upward. She would do to him what she had done to Charlene, but much more. She would not simply open and stretch his anal opening, she would do exactly as Bartley demanded, finger fuck him. The whole idea of applying the word fuck to a man aroused her tremendously.
She probed his tight, muscular ass with her eager fingertips. It felt hot, dark, and forbidding. She caught her breath as she felt the wanton, wiry strands of anal hair against her fingers. She probed deeply, seeking the way through his dark forest, touching at long last the throbbingly moist cleft, feeling its convolutions, knowing it opened the door to his living, interior flesh. She pushed forward, working her slim finger inward. The tip of it entered him and slid upward, moving slowly, bit by bit, while Pat continued to suck and nibble at the blunt end of his cock. The finger moved on, sliding, gliding, worming its way into the intense heat. She kept pushing, pushing, pushing until it was in all the way.
Bartley moved his buttocks from side to side, flexing his finely tuned muscles, thrilling to the pangs of pain and pleasure that were rampaging through his body. Pat ate wildly at the end of his hard penis, moving her head up and down in rhythm with her probing finger. The man's gonads bounced and jerked in their hairy sac, gathering within them an overwhelming load of male cream that would soon spurt madly from his deep slit. He could feel a screaming climax gushing toward him.
"Suck me!" he screamed. "Suck me harder! I'm going to drown you with my cum. Fuck me with your finger, just like that. Uhhhhhh, uhhhhhh, uhhhhhh." His breath came in harsh, wracking gasps, and his whole body trembled so he could hardly keep his balance.
Suddenly, the semen spurted from his bursting penis, coursing deep into Pat's hot, commanding mouth. Instinctively, she swallowed, loving the taste of the warm, rich cream as it flowed into her throat, bathing her insides with its white, seething sweetness. Her lips squeezed tightly at the vomiting knob, sucking it until every last drop of man juice was forced out of it.
"Did you like that?" Bartley asked, hardly able to speak. Pat looked up at him and smiled. Slowly, she withdrew her finger from the man's dripping anus. Looking at it, she found it streaked with brown. Without hesitation, her eyes still on Bartley's contorted face, she brought it to her mouth. The spicy scent filled her flaring nostrils. Opening her full lips, she sucked the finger inside, cleaning it thoroughly and savoring the warmly intimate flavor of his excrement.
Bartley grinned broadly at her. "You're really something else. You like it all, don't you? Women, men, assholes, everything."
"Yes. Yes, I do."
"Stand up," the man whispered. He got to his knees before the naked girl, his trembling fingers opening her legs, spreading her creamy thighs until he could see the lush, pink folds of her vaginal cleft. Dropping his face to her quivering pussy, he sniffed of it the way a dog might do, taking in the sweet, sexually arousing scent of girlish cunt. Then, opening his mouth wide, he closed his lips over her nether mouth, the hotness of it sending the girl to new heights of passion. His tongue laved over her taut lips, just as Charlene's had done, and she let out a low, heartfelt groan of raw pleasure. Again she felt worshipped, adored, the object of loving affection. She could feel the juices of climax beginning to rise. It was too soon. She fought them back. This had to last. They had all night long, and she was going to spend every minute of it in sensual fulfillment.
Bartley's mouth moved slowly up and down. He kissed his way carefully along the tight length of her hairy crack, flicking in between her widely splayed legs nearly to the tiny hole of her virgin butt.
He looked up at her. "Sit down," he whispered. She sat on the edge of the sofa, her legs spread so wide the muscles of her hips ached. Bartley took hold of her thighs and silently urged her forward, causing her back to slip down until she was lying on the sofa, her buttocks over its edge. He lay on his stomach. She felt his strong thumbs pulling her butt cheeks apart, and then she experienced something brand new. His sweetly wet, writhing tongue dug deeply into her tiny anal cleft. As the tip of it touched her tightly clenched muscle lips, Pat let out a shriek of excitement. She reached behind herself, helping to spread her fleshy cheeks, giving him total access to her burning rectal passage.
His squirming tongue moved into her, finding new nerve endings never excited before. Pat sobbed and moaned with pleasure, her head tossing from one side to the other, the long strands of her dark hair catching between her gasping lips. She was beside herself. She had never imagined how wonderful this could feel. Tears streamed down her hot cheeks. She was the willing prisoner of the wriggling male tongue.
Suddenly it was gone. Pat gave a little cry of disappointment, a sensation of utter loneliness rushing through her body. She raised her head to look at him. "Don't stop. Please don't stop!" she cried chokingly.
"Only for a moment," he whispered. "I want to give you something more, something better than my tongue."
"What? What do you mean?" Pat stammered, a horrible coldness beginning to form in her belly.
"This," Bartley answered. Standing up, he gripped his newly erect penis in his hand. It looked larger than it had before. Pat screamed at the top of her lungs. Jumping up, she gathered up her clothing, dressed hurriedly, and ran from the apartment. She did not stop running until she got back to her boardinghouse.
CHAPTER FIVE
Three days later, an envelope addressed to Pat arrived at Fenston's Feminine Fashions. Mrs. Fenston sniffed condescendingly as she handed the girl the letter. "Here," she said. "Your fans are writing."
Pat took the envelope back to the storeroom and ripped open the end of it. Out fell a check from Bartley Jones, a check for a hundred and fifty dollars. Pat looked at the figures and blinked her eyes. She had made more money in a couple of hours than she did for a whole week's work at Fenston's. There was a note in the envelope too.
"Sorry about the other night," it said. "It won't happen again until you want it to. Can I have another chance?" It was signed, "Bart."
Pat smiled. Maybe he really was sorry. He was terribly nice, and perhaps he would let her call the shots from now on. She had simply over reacted.
"Patricia, dear," Mrs. Fenston called. "There's a customer here."
Pat hurried back to reality, stuffing the check and the note into her pocket. An artificial smile on her lips, she waited on the customer. That very afternoon, Bartley Jonas walked into the store. Coming directly up to Pat, he said urgently, "Something's come up." From the look in his eye, Pat could tell it was important.
"What is it?" she asked, half afraid something terrible had happened. "I can't talk about it here. Come to the studio when you get off work. I'll be waiting." He turned on his heel and left the store not even pausing to ask her whether or not she had other plans. She did not, of course. She seldom did.
Pat fretted for the rest of the afternoon. Bartley had looked excited, not upset. Maybe nothing bad had happened after all. Besides, what could have gone wrong? Perhaps the pictures had not sold. That could not be, though. Pat had already received a check. The fact was that Bartley probably just wanted to have sex with her again, she thought to herself, smiling secretly. He did not have to make up excuses to do that. She was ready any time he snapped his fingers, as long as he did not try to do what he had suggested the other night. The idea of any man invading her anus made her sick at her stomach.
Perhaps Bartley planned to invite the beautiful Charlene to join them this time. Having sex with both those sensually arousing people at the same time was so exciting that goose bumps broke out all over her body.
"Are you getting a chill?" Mrs. Fenston asked sharply. "You can't be sick, you know. Our big sale event begins this week. I need you to be on hand."
"I'm sure I'll be fine, Ma'am," Pat answered quietly as she fled to the privacy of the storeroom. When five o'clock finally came, Pat was out of Fenston's and up the street as fast as her legs could take her. She ran up the stairs to Bartley's studio two at a time. Finding the door ajar, she pushed into the outer office. "Bart?" she called. "Are you here?"
"I'm in the back. Come on in." She stepped into the back room, and there was Bartley, his sleeves rolled up, just finishing a developing job. "Pat, glad you're here. Change into those clothes over there. We're due there in an hour."
"Due where? What are you talking about?"
"Never mind. I'll tell you on the way to the party."
"Party? What party?" The memory of the Christmas charity receptions back at the orphanage flooded her mind.
"Stop asking questions and get dressed. I hope those things are the right size. I dug them out of my costume closet." Pat examined the clothing which lay draped over a chair in the corner. There were a pair of open sandals, a mere crisscross of thin straps, the kind she had seen in the magazines for seventy-five dollars. They looked like they were her size or close enough to fit. Under them were a pair of slacks, cut like Levi's done in a paisley satin fabric, all tones of orange, pink, and yellow. She touched them, thrilling to the feel of their elegance. Fenston's Feminine Fashions had never stocked anything like this. With them was a see through chiffon blouse, cut very tight, large patch pockets the only thing that hid the nipples from view. Beside the pile lay a rope of gold chain for her neck.
Pat backed away from the enticing pile of finery. "You really want me to put this stuff on? What for?"
"Yes, and hurry. We have less than an hour."
"But where are we going? What's this all about?" The harried photographer gave a sigh and threw up his hands. "Oh, all right! I suppose the quickest way to get you moving is to tell you the whole story. I sold some of those pictures I took of you and Charlene the other day."
"I know. I got the check in the mail. Thanks." She was about to tell him how much she appreciated the windfall.
"Never mind all that," he snapped impatiently. "The point is that one of my regular buyers is Stanley Roush the producer. You've heard of him?"
"Roush? I think so. He makes movies, doesn't he? The man snorted. "That, my dear child, is an understatement. Stanley Roush is a giant in the industry. His films gross millions. What's more important, he has a soft spot in his heart for pretty, young girls."
"I don't quite understand. What does that have to do with my wearing these expensive clothes?"
"Stanley Roush took one look at those shots of you and got me on the phone. He's giving a party tonight out at the beach house he owns near here. He invited me on the condition I bring you along to meet him."
"Is Charlene going with us?"
"Charlene's been there before. She's a little old for Roush's taste, poor darling."
"Stanley Roush, the producer, wants to meet me," Pat murmured still unable to believe what was happening to her.
"That's what I said, isn't it? Now hurry up and get dressed." Numbly, Pat put on the clothes. Everything fit, right down to the exotic sandals. She looked in the mirror. Could this be the girl she knew? Taking her long, dark hair, she piled it high on her head, posing before the glass.
"No, no, leave it down. It makes you look younger," Bartley Jonas ordered as he fastened the gold chain around her neck. He hurried her out to his tiny sports car. They sped down the highway, heading for the beach.
After what seemed a long time to the excited girl, the man slowed the car, and turned into a short driveway. The space in front of the huge beach house was covered with trees and shrubs, hiding it completely from the road. The house itself was constructed of glass and rough hewn timbers and looked like nothing more than a set out of one of Roush's movies.
"Here we are. Nervous?"
"Yes," Pat said. The truth was, she felt totally out of her element. Nothing in her background prepared her for something like this. Bartley put his arm around her waist and squeezed her close to him. "Don't be afraid," he whispered, his lips so close to her ear she could feel his warm breath. "Just remember, you have exactly what he wants. Keep your mouth shut and stick close to me. I'll tell you exactly what to do."
As they mounted the deck and walked toward the open front door they could see people inside standing in small groups, talking and drinking. Every one of them was beautiful, at least to Pat's unsophisticated eyes. Flames leaped up in the fireplace which stood in the center of the immense room, and behind it all, the ocean, blue-green and powerful, crashed its white capped waves on the smooth sand of the beach.
"Greetings," purred a young woman with highly piled, streaked blonde hair. Her stark white slacks and open shirt set off her beautiful, bronze tan. "I'm Marnie Pierson, Mr. Roush's personal secretary." She smiled at them coldly, her green eyes flicking rapidly up and down Pat's girlish figure.
"I'm Bartley Jonas, and this is Patricia Norwicki. Mr. Roush called to invite me this afternoon."
"Of course. Here you are on the list." She checked off their names from the clipboard she held in the crook of her arm. Then, she leveled Bartley with a chilly gaze. "I believe you're a photographer, aren't you?
"That's right," Bartley answered, his tone less friendly than before.
"You haven't brought along any of your equipment, have you? Sometimes we find our photographer friends like to do that, hoping for candid shots, you understand."
"No. No equipment," the man muttered.
"Fine," she answered, making another check on her list. "Have a lovely evening, won't you?" She floated away.
"Goddamn uppity dyke," Bartley mumbled. "Is she a lesbian?" Pat asked breathlessly. "I can't believe it."
"One of the most notorious in Hollywood. A real girl eater. Watch out for her."
Pat was about to ask what made the secretary so different from Charlene, but Bartley was already shoving a drink into her hand.
"Nice crowd here tonight," he said "I've never seen such beautiful people," Pat replied breathlessly.
"No more than you are, Baby," Bartley said, giving her a reassuring pat on the behind. "Those clothes I picked out for you really show you off to the best advantage."
"How much do you want for these clothes?" Pat asked, half afraid to hear his answer. They would surely cost her two weeks pay or more. "Forget it, Kid. Let's just call it an investment. Hey, look at this guy. He's coming at us like an airplane on a homing beacon. I think he's had small parts in a couple of television shows. Christ, look at how he's' eyeing your tits."
A lanky young blond man in a sport shirt open to the navel and flowing, semitransparent slacks approached them. "Hi! You've just arrived, haven't you? I don't think we've met. My name's Jimmy Allen, and I work in television. Later on, a couple of us are going to perform. I hope you'll watch." Through the whole statement, he never took his eyes off Pat's chest.
Bartley introduced Pat stiffly and then said to her in a loud voice, "Come on. Let's go look at the ocean." Taking her by the arm, he led her out onto the deck. "You gotta steer clear of that type," he grumbled, half under his breath.
"I thought he was kind of cute."
"Cute! That's all he is. That kind of guy will use anybody he can get his hands on." Pat was about to ask him if that was not what he intended for her to do with Stanley Roush, but the incredible beauty of the sea took all her attention. The huge waves crashed against the white sand in a whirl of blues and greens. The sun was preparing to set, turning the ever moving surface of the water into an ocean of shimmering gold. The two of them stood looking out at it, sipping their drinks.
Marnie Pierson stuck her head out onto the deck. "It's time for the entertainment. Come on inside so you don't miss it."
"I wonder where the hell Roush is," Bartley mumbled as they went back into the main room.
Even though she had discovered that the photographer was generally high strung, Pat had never seen him act this nervous, and the man's unrest carried over to her. Except for that, though, she was having the time of her life. There was nothing to be nervous about as far as she could see.
"What kind of entertainment is there going to be, do you suppose?"
"It could be anything. I've heard some pretty wild stories about these parties Roush throws. They usually turn into orgies before the night's over, or so they say. By the looks of the guy we met earlier, if Roush told him to suck himself off in front of the whole crowd, he'd be happy to do it."
"What's an orgy?" Pat asked as they sat down. Bartley looked at her and chuckled. "God, but you're charming. I almost hate to see you lose that beautiful innocence of yours. By tomorrow morning, I guarantee you, you'll know what an orgy is."
Marnie Pierson stepped to the center of the floor and clapped her hands, commanding attention. "Tonight, you lucky boys and girls, we have a special treat, Jimmy and Jean, a couple of rising talents. Mr. Roush has asked them to dance for you tonight, and as a special favor, they agreed. Here they are."
There was a scattering of polite applause, and Marnie nodded for someone to dim the lights. The flames of the massive fireplace cast weird, flickering patterns on the walls. Someone drew heavy drapes to keep out prying eyes, casting the room into near darkness. Music began, a slow, sensuous beat, heavy with drums. Two lithe figures leaped into the center of the large room. One was the boy who had introduced himself to Pat earlier. The other was a young girl, slim and sinewy, her hair precisely the same color blond as Jimmy's. Pat wondered if they had dyed it to match. If they had, what a strange thing to do, she thought. The girl was dressed the same as Jimmy too, flowing, see through pants and a blouse open to the navel. Both of them were barefoot. Pat could actually see the patches of fuzz that crowned their pubic zones, and in the boy's pants leg the long, flaccid organ of excitement. The two of them writhed and twisted to the music, their movements openly sexual. Dramatically, they shoved their pelvises forward, inviting the audience to take part. A shiny layer of perspiration covered their smooth skinned bodies, making them glow invitingly in the light of the fire. Pat could not take her eyes from the bulging crotch of the blond Jimmy. She could almost smell the healthy muskiness of it.
The dancing couple took one another by the hand and moved to directly in front of the fire. Pat could now see the man's long cock and cum laden scrotum through the thin fabric of the almost transparent pants he wore. Likewise, she saw his partner's delightfully fine cunt hair and even an indication of the indentation that was her succulent little pussy. How she would love to have both of the dancers at once, she thought. She could eat out the girl's deep, sweetly moist cleft while Jimmy shoved his huge, creamy skinned phallus into her happily accepting vaginal furrow. Pat giggled to herself. How lewd she was becoming! She had been so shy about sex up to now. Not in taking part, of course, just in talking and thinking about it. That was all changed now, and she had Bartley Jonas to thank for it.
The male dancer jerked his abdomen suddenly, and his huge genitals bounced invitingly. Pat's greedy eyes grew wide with attention. She thought she could see a spot of wetness on his sheer slacks. He must be drooling pre-seminal fluid. How exciting. The girl was wet there too. Her tender cunt juicing over with the evidence of her growing arousal.
The two blond dancers spread their legs wide, and Jimmy's penis grew more erect. They twisted their slim hips front to back and side to side. Everybody in the room was watching them, breathless with excitement.
Now Jimmy was completely, burstingly erect, and Pat found the size of his phallus hard to believe. Outlined in the light of the fire, it looked absolutely immense, the kind that would leave a girl happily and totally exhausted.
Jimmy and Jean turned away, their trim buttocks facing the audience. They writhed and shook, jerking wildly with their long legs spread wide. As if they were answering a secret call, they opened their flowing slacks, their backs still to the crowd. They let them fall slowly down their legs, over the smooth, silken cheeks of their perfect buttocks. They stood nude from the waist down, their bodies like beautiful pieces of sculpture in the firelight.
Now they undid their shirts, shrugged in time to the sensual music, and let them fall over their shoulders and off onto the floor. Kicking their discarded garments out of the way, they spread their legs again and bent slowly forward. Jimmy's swinging gonads came into view, huge in their hair studded sac. Their hands touched the floor, and their perfect, delicately rounded anal openings were spread wide before the appreciative audience.
Jean stayed in position, but Jimmy raised himself slowly and sensuously to an upright stance, the muscles of his back rippling invitingly. In profile now, his huge, distended erection jutted straight out in front of him. Slowly, moving in time to the music, he approached the girl from the rear. His big hands caressed her smooth sides, feeling every inch of them, running up and down their smoothness again and again. He moved closer. Still Jean bent over as if she were offering him her anus. Pat held her breath. It was horrible. Could they really be going to do that? For all her revulsion, she felt a strange, overwhelming excitement. Lewd feelings washed over her with the same intensity as the waves hit the shore outside the big windows.
Taking his immensely erect penis in his hand, Jimmy rubbed it up and down the length of the girl's long, hairless crack. The audience went wild, applauding, shouting encouragement, urging the blond man on. Jean reached behind herself and saucily grabbed her fleshy cheeks, stretching them wide apart as though challenging him to take her all the way. Pat could see the blunt, purple head of his cock touching the tiny, convoluted opening. The girl did not look frightened. She looked as though she could hardly wait for it to happen. Could it be? Was there really something desirable about anal intercourse? Had Pat been missing some almost magical experience? Ridiculous! She closed the thought out of her mind.
Suddenly, Jimmy pulled away. It had all been symbolic, all part of the salacious dance. The audience moaned with disappointment as though they had been cheated in some way. The couple fell into one another's arms and writhed against one another. Pat could see the girl's pert, young breasts pushing into Jimmy's broad chest, and she envied both of them.
They finished by doing a lewdly arousing tango across the floor, and then the music stopped. The two of them leaped to the center of the room, bowed deeply, and then skipped out of the room. The applause was deafening.
The lights came up again.
"There he is," Bartley hissed into Pat's ear, "Stanley Roush. He's coming over. Get ready, and remember, do whatever he tells you."
CHAPTER SIX
An uncomfortably heavy looking man was heading across the room in Pat and Bartley's direction. He smoked a long, foul smelling cigar and stopped frequently to greet the guests. Whenever he did so, he glanced quickly at the photographer and his young charge. It was obvious he was intending to get to them.
"Good evening," he said, his voice booming above the music. "Bartley Jonas, isn't it? I like your work. Sit and look at it for hours, when I have the time." He guffawed coarsely, blowing out huge, smelly clouds of cigar smoke.
"Thanks, I'm sure," Bartley answered quietly. "I'd like you to meet Pat Norwicki."
"Ah, yes, yes. You're the subject of that last batch of photos. Nice to meet you in the flesh, Kid. Those shots of you with that dyke really got to me."
"Thanks," Pat answered, not knowing what else to say.
"Come with me," Roush ordered abruptly. Turning he started away.
"Go ahead. Follow him. Hurry up," Bartley whispered, giving her a quick push.
"But what am I supposed to do?"
"Whatever he tells you, like I said before. Hurry up. Your whole future might depend on what happens in the next hour."
Reluctantly, Pat followed the heavy set man across the room. As she walked, hands came out from nowhere, caressing her body, exploring her tightly packed buttocks, exciting her to lewd thoughts. The party was obviously getting more intimate by the second, and she hated to leave it, especially since she had no idea where Stanley Roush was taking her.
The producer opened a door and turned, smiling salaciously at Pat. "Come in here," he croaked, the gravelly tone of his voice sending shivers up her spine. He closed the door behind them and turned the lock. When he flipped on the lights, she saw that they were in what was clearly the master suite. It was a large room, dominated by a king-size bed with a lavishly embossed leather spread.
"Do you like this place, Kid?" the jowly man asked.
"Yes, Sir. I never saw anything like it." Roush let out a loud snort. "Next to my place in Hollywood, this place is a dump. I only come down here about one weekend a month, when I need to get away from the routine. Take off your clothes and lay down on the bed."
"What?"
"You heard me clear enough. Strip! I want you naked right now. Don't try to pretend you're shy, not after what I saw in those pictures I bought from that two bit photographer friend of yours. None of the other girls he's brought me have been shy, not in the least."
Do whatever he tells you, Bartley had told her. Quickly, her fingers shaking nervously, Pat took off her clothes. Roush stood by, rubbing his hands and grinning lecherously as she disrobed.
"So beautiful," he muttered. "Better than the photos, a hundred times better." He unbuttoned his sport shirt, letting his fat, fish-white belly protrude. Undoing his pants, he dropped them to the floor, standing before Pat in only his baggy white boxer shorts and deck shoes. "Lay on the bed, like I told you!" He gestured toward the king-size bed. "But don't you want to take the leather spread off first? We might ruin it."
"Fuck the stinkin' spread. Who cares? Lay down." Pat did as the man told her, her whole body trembling with the fear of the unknown. She watched apprehensively as Roush dropped his shorts. His half erect penis bobbed before him, short and fat, but even bigger around than Bartley's. She wondered how it would feel to be fucked by an organ that thick and had a sickening feeling she was about to find out.
Sitting down on the bed, the producer began running his clammy hands over her flat stomach and mounding breasts. "Beautiful!" he kept grunting, over and over again. He dropped his face to Pat's deeply indented navel, and she could feel the hotness of his breath against her skin. For the first time, she began to feel aroused. His long, thick tongue snaked into her navel cave, and she squirmed with delight. A mouth was a mouth was a mouth, she thought, giggling lasciviously and writhing about on the smooth leather. The feel of it against her bare back and buttocks was delightful, almost like having another, young, supple body beneath her own.
Lying between her widely splayed legs, Roush reached up suddenly and grabbed her exposed breasts roughly in his thick fingers. He pushed and kneaded the flesh of them, bringing quick, harsh moans of pain from the girl's gaping mouth. She felt suddenly alive and aroused beyond belief.
Without warning, he dropped his face to her fragrant, sparsely haired crotch, and she fainted with pleasure as his heavy tongue delved directly into her pouting pussy, licking salaciously up and down its sizzling length, loud slurping noises making the moment all the more exceptional. Stanley Roush might be fat and ugly, but he knew how to arouse a woman, to bring her screaming to the heights in what seemed like no time at all.
Pat lay writhing on the huge bed, her buttocks drinking in the soft warmth of the leather spread. She wriggled in unbearable delight, her trim pelvis lifting from the bed, pushing her face-eating cunt against Roush's greedily sucking mouth. Soft, intense, mewling cries escaped her full lips, and she tossed her head from side to side. She was no longer aware of where she was, who she was with. All her body knew was that it was crashing down the highway of fulfillment. Before much longer, she would scream in climax, her whole body wracked with the delicious stress of completion. Every nerve and muscle were now attuned to that end, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.
The hot, perspiring area of her fleecy groin cried out for relief. She spread her long, tapered legs even wider and lifted her feet into the air. Her heels pounded against the producer's back, and she writhed, rocking back and forth, her labored breath issuing in deep, heartfelt sobs.
"Fuck me! Oh, please, you gotta fuck my cunt noo-oo-oo-oow. Please, pleeeeee-ease!" Rough hands turned her on the bed. Her quivering body responded, and she flopped onto her stomach. Almost without knowing what she was doing, Pat bit into the leather of the bedspread, feeling it yield softly beneath her sharp teeth.
Roush raised her buttocks now, pulling up with pinching hands, forcing her to her knees, her face still buried in the bed spread. He was going to take her dog fashion, from the back, she realized suddenly. That was wonderful. Men had done that to her before, and the experience was unspeakably lewd and exciting. His thick penis would shove into her, opening the drooling lips of her burning hot pussy. She was so ripe, she was so ready. It was all she could do to keep from climaxing before he even began his thrust. She wiggled her smooth, succulent ass cheeks, indented with dimples, inviting the man onward, encouraging him in his salacious taking of her. She waited on all fours, feeling like an animal in heat, the juices of her hot cuntal opening running down to stain the leather spread. The lips of her pussy twitched excitedly as even more hot blood pumped in to redden and enflame them. She would literally suck the slimy, freshly churned cum from the producer's swollen gonads.
Roush's hands grasped her tender buttocks as he worked his way in between her wide spread legs. He wiggled back and forth against her flaring thighs, the blunt tip of his hard penis nudging against her sensitive flesh. His organ seemed huge now, even thicker than it had looked before, and it was hot, almost burning her skin.
"Ouuuuuuuuu, stick into me. Let me have it right now. I can't wait any more!" she squealed.
She groaned with raw passion, her cunt open and juicing over from end to end, ready to accept him, eat him, milk him dry.
"Stick that sweet little butt of yours up high, Kid. I'm gonna screw you hard enough to last you a whole lifetime."
"Yes, yessssssss, that's what I want to have you do. Stick it in, nooooooow!" The heavy man pushed forward, and Pat moved back against his belly. He dragged the bulbous, blood engorged head of his cock through the syrupy wetness of her drooling slit, soaking his shaft and covering it with her feminine liquor.
Looking down at her soft, jiggling ass cheeks, he decided suddenly what he was going to do. She would be so tight there, excitingly taut and unused. He would make the little bitch scream with pain. That would take some of the cockiness out of her. He would give her something to remember him by. Squeezing the smooth surface of her buttocks, he smiled to himself as he saw dark red welts rise on her flesh. She groaned painfully. Already he was hurting her, but it was nothing compared to what would come.
Letting go of Pat with one hand, he took the burning thickness of his veiny erection in his palm. Again he wriggled it through the hot wetness of her naked cunt, lubricating it, making it slippery with her womanly slime.
"Put it in me!" she howled, having no idea of his real intention. Perhaps, he thought, he was taking a virgin. Perhaps he was about to thrust his penis into a darkness where no one had gone before. He hoped so. Shivering, he thought of all that yielding tightness.
Gripping his phallic giant as though it were a knife, Roush worked it up between the smooth, hairless cheeks of her behind until its blunt, rounded knob nudged urgingly against the tight, closed ring of muscle that surrounded her nether lips.
At that instant, Pat finally understood what he was about to do to her. "No!" she screamed. "You can't put it there. No! You'll kill me! Pleeeeeeease stop, stop!"
The producer laughed coarsely. "The hell you can't take it there," he grunted. "Anybody can take it there, even a man." He tightened his grip on her squirming buttocks and pushed hard against her tiny, totally vulnerable anal opening.
Pat was helpless and unable to defend herself against him. With one beefy hand, he shoved her face into the mattress, half smothering her and masking her pitiful, frightened cries. She could feel the head of his prick forcing itself into her body, and there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop him.
Roush thrust forward. He could feel the vainly resisting muscles of her anal mouth relax defeatedly. Again grabbing her succulent, trembling cheeks, he jerked her backward roughly, skewering her on his awesome hardness.
Her scream echoed to the rafters. "Aww-wwwwww! No, no, NO," she sobbed. "You're killing me!" Pat could hardly breathe, and she was fighting hard to keep from passing out. Roush dug his fingernails into her softly yielding flesh. "Don't bother yelling, Bitch. Nobody's gonna hear you. I had this dump soundproofed for times like this." He thrust deeper, taking her all the way with his blood engorged erection. He trembled all over, feeling her fleshy anal sleeve molding itself around his penis as if it were a condom.
Still sobbing, her entire rectum burning as though a hot poker had been thrust into it, Pat shook her head groggily as she lifted it from the mattress. She tried to concentrate on staying alive. Then she caught her breath. Could it be? It seemed almost as if the pain were receding. A tiny part of her was beginning to respond to the huge, virile cock stretching out the tight walls of her canal. She discovered herself suddenly filled with new sensations, vibrating with passionate life. Then, sudden as a bolt of lightning, she realized that she loved being screwed in the ass. She loved it! She was crazy for it.
"Oh, yeah!" she moaned, her voice low and growling with raw passion, "Screw me with your big dong! Shove up there. Give me every throbbing inch of that meat!"
"That's more like it," Roush grunted piggishly. "That's the way I like my women to sound. You love it now, don't you? You're never gonna be able to get enough prick up your butt, are you?"
"No, no, never. Give me more. Pleeeeeeease!" She tossed her head from side to. side, gasping for breath, her entire being singing with passion. The tight walls of her constricting anus gripped at the man's pulsating phallus. He was into her all the way, and he rocked her back and forth on the bed, watching as his blood engorged organ slipped hotly in and out of her grasping rectum. Her pink anal flesh clung to his gleaming hardness as if it were afraid to let him go. He grinned down at her humping back, filled with feelings of superiority. Again he had conquered, again a woman was his. He had brought her ultimate pain, and she had quickly learned to love it. Now that he had blasted her open, Roush knew he had created a totally sexual animal. She was ready for whatever steps might come next, bondage, the exquisite pain of sadistic sex, anything. He let his bloated erection nose into the tightness of her dark, moistly warm channel once again, grinding his wiry pubic hair against her tender cheeks.
Her anus stretched wide, its rubbery lips gripping the very root of the man's cock. He was far up inside her bowel now, and Pat could not believe how wonderful it felt to have him fucking her like this. Life throbbed within her, probing, pushing further, ironing out every curve and crease of her silken interior flesh.
She pushed backward, giving a wail of absolute, naked submission. "Oh, yes. Stick it in me, Man! Oh yeah, feels so goo-ooooood!" She writhed about with abandon, her passionate pleasure reaching heights she never knew existed before this moment. She bucked her trim buttocks back against his pelvic zone, skewering herself even more thoroughly than before. She found herself wishing his penis were two feet long, long enough to reach her heart. She moved from side to side, swinging her buttocks, squeezing and rubbing the turgid flesh of his penis, making him groan like an animal in high rut. She clenched her naked ass cheeks, milking him, making the nether lips eat at the thick prisoner between them.
Roush howled at the feeling of tightness. Her muscles delighted him as they fluttered wildly about his taut erection. She was eating him alive with her asshole now, and he loved it. Pat pushed back against him frantically, rotating her buttocks, grunting, taking everything he had to give.
Pat knew it was about to happen. Without his even touching her cunt, she was reaching her climax. It was incredible, wonderful, far beyond everything she had ever dreamed. She was not alone. Grunting deep in his throat, Roush bucked his cock harder and harder into her tight sheath. His cock burrowed in so deeply now, that he knew he could do no more.
"Now, Baby," he gurgled, nearly crazy with passion. "It's time. I'm coming my guts out!" He shook all over, his breath coming in short, frantic gasps. Then he came. His hugely inflated gonads drew up tightly against the root of his penis, and he emptied them in one, long, soul-shattering stream. His hot, white love cream poured into the teenager's demanding rectal passage.
The hot sensation of his steaming cum pouring into her was enough to send Pat across the threshold. "Ooooooooh, yessss-ssss," she hissed. "I, I'm commmmmm-mmming right noooooow!"
Her boiling pussy surged with female liquids, and they came pouring out of her body to drench the bedspread beneath her. She collapsed, sobbing and moaning with delighted exhaustion.
Stanley Roush pulled his spent penis out of Pat's ass and flopped down onto the bed beside her. Smiling lewdly, he whispered, "How'd you like to be in the movies, Kid?"
It sounded to Pat like a line out of an old film.
"Sure, why not?" she answered, grinning at him.
"Good. We'll drive up to Hollywood in the morning. I'll have Marnie arrange a screen test right away. Once you're through that, I've got a movie role in mind for you."
Suddenly, Pat realized Roush was not being funny. "You mean it, don't you?" she asked.
"Of course," the producer snorted. "I never screw around when it comes to business. I got a feeling you can make it big, and I'm willing to take a chance on that."
"But, Mr. Roush, I can't just go off like that without telling anybody."
"Why not? Who do you have to tell? You got a boyfriend or a lover or something?"
"No, but I do have a job. I have to give notice. They have a big sale coming up this week, and they need me."
"Look, Kid. Call them tomorrow and quit over the phone. I guarantee you in a month they'll be hanging signs in their windows telling people you used to work there."
"There's my room at the boarding house.
I should check out."
"Forget all that shit. The studio will provide everything you need, clothes, makeup, all of the necessities. Right away, our publicity department will start building you an image. That includes your wardrobe, where you live, what you eat, who you're seen with, everything. What do you say, Kid? You willing to give it a try?"
Pat shook her head in disbelief. Could this man be telling the truth? Then again, even if he was not, what did she have to lose? As long as the studio provided for her needs, she had nothing to stop her. If the whole thing was a lie, all she had to do was hitch hike home.
"Sure, Mr. Roush," she said. "I'm willing." Chuckling, Stanley Roush shook her hand. The gesture seemed strangely formal considering what the two of them had been doing only moments before. "You won't regret this, Kid. You'll be a star, I know it. The boys at the studio will take care of the contracts and all the other particulars when we get there tomorrow. Why don't you go back out and enjoy yourself at the party. It ought to be really swinging by this time. Just make damn sure you're here at nine."
"Thanks, Mr. Roush. Aren't you coming back out there?" Stanley Roush laughed loudly and shook his head. "Not me. I need sleep. I'm not like you kids. You can go all night long and still be fresh in the morning. Go ahead. Enjoy yourself." He opened the door and pushed her out of the room.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Pat was floating on a cloud as she walked into the main room of the beach house. She had to find Bartley Jonas and tell him what had just happened. She would not tell him everything, of course. Let him guess for himself at what went on between her and the producer on his king-size bed. There was a lot she had to thank Bartley for, and she knew exactly how she wanted to do it.
The living room looked like something out of a cheap Biblical epic. People were coupling in every possible position. At least fifty of them were spread out across the floor in groups of two, three, as many as seven. Most of them were completely naked. She could smell marijuana, and the air was heavy with the blue smoke of it.
A few couples, most of them nude like the rest, danced before the fireplace. One pair was even screwing in standing position to the intense amusement of those around them. They clung to one another, the man actually lifting the girl from the floor as he thrust his mighty erection into her body.
In all parts of the room, groups of guests were intent on sexual pleasure. Marnie Pierson, Roush's secretary, was kneeling before one of the low couches, her face buried in the crotch of a beautiful young black woman. So, Pat thought to herself, what Bartley said was true. She watched them longingly, wanting to take part, despite her recent draining in the bedroom. There was not time now, though. She had to find Bartley.
Women knelt, their faces buried in the cushions, their buttocks spread wide, while men ravaged their behinds just as the producer had done to her. From every corner of the huge room came groans, grunts, and the wild sounds of sweating bodies slapping into one another in sexual abandon.
Pat had put her clothing back on before leaving Roush's bedroom, and now she felt a little out of place. She stepped across the naked bodies, trying as best she could not to disturb them. Hands came up to fondle her crotch, making it tingle with fresh sensation. She knew that before very long she would be ready to join in.
She made her way to the bar and poured a glass of whisky. Leaning back against the mirrored wall, she sipped it slowly, her eyes roving the room in search of Bartley Jonas.
A tall, skinny young man not more than a year or two older than she suddenly appeared beside Pat at the bar. Grinning at her, his eyes glazed and out of focus, he held out a smoking roach toward her. She took a deep toke and handed it back to the youth.
"Thanks," she whispered, trying to hold as much of the burning smoke in her lungs as possible.
"You're pretty," the boy said, slurring the words.
"Thanks," Pat replied, smiling at him.
"How'd you like to go down on me?" He pushed his pelvis forward lewdly, his long, flaccid penis flopping against his thin legs.
"Maybe later," Pat answered, surprised at her own casualness. "Right now I'm looking for the man I came here with."
"Suit yourself, Honey," the boy said, shrugging his narrow shoulders. "I'll be around if you want me, and my cock's always hot for blowing." He drifted off into the crowd. Pat felt herself beginning to grow more relaxed. The combination of pot and alcohol was beginning to have its effect, and she liked the feeling. What had happened in the bedroom was beginning to seem more real to her. Was her life really going to change completely? She would know more in the morning. In the meantime she had nothing to worry about. All she had to do was relax and have a good time at the wildest, most unrestrained party she had ever attended. Just watching the guests cavort about her made her ready for action again.
At that moment, the black woman Roush's secretary had been eating out came floating over to the floor. Pat watched her as she moved, a tawny, jungle beast. Tall and lithe, she had the smoothest complexion imaginable. She looked at Pat through heavy lidded eyes.
The woman poured herself a scotch and eyed the teenager hungrily all the time she was doing it. "I haven't seen you before, have I?" she asked, her voice as soothing and dark as an African night.
"I noticed you, though. You were with Mr. Roush's secretary just a few minutes ago.
The woman laughed. "Yeah, that Marnie loves to eat twat. You had her yet, or don't you go in for that kind of thing?"
"Sometimes. It all depends." The woman smiled, her teeth stark white against the ebony of her skin. "She'll get to you then. She has good taste. How come you're wearing clothes this late in the evening?"
"No reason, I guess. I feel out of place to tell you the truth."
"Then maybe it's time you got rid of them, hey?"
Pat chuckled at the simple logic of the woman's statement. "Yes, I guess it is."
Quickly, she peeled off her borrowed clothing, rolling it up and stuffing it in behind the bar. She could feel the woman's dark brown eyes burning into her.
"You got a real nice body," the negress whispered. "Thanks," Pat answered quietly, blushing at the woman's directness, even though they were in a room filled with naked, intertwining people, doing things Pat had hardly dared dream about before. This was all so different from what she had known, so open, so free. There was no grunting and groaning in the cramped back seat of an old sedan for these individuals.
They were what life was supposed to be about, and now Pat was part of it too.
Marnie Pierson and the skinny young man Pat had talked to earlier came over to join them, walking hand in hand.
"Pat, Jerry here tells me you and he visited earlier," Roush's beautiful secretary said, smiling enticingly at her.
"It was hardly a visit, really," Pat answered.
"Well, whatever it was, he's more than a little interested in you. Aren't you, Jerry?"
The skinny youth nodded bashfully.
Marnie turned back to Pat. "Mr. Roush was more than a little interested in you too, Dear, wasn't he?" she asked.
"Yes, I guess you could put it that way. I'm supposed to go back to Hollywood with you in the morning, if he was serious."
"Oh, he was serious. Mr. Roush never jokes when it comes to business."
"Hey," the black woman said, "I see a clear place over there on the floor, if you're in the mood." Without waiting for an answer, she headed toward the opening, the other three following eagerly.
Jerry, the tall youth, brought up the rear, and his hands were immediately caressing Pat's cheeky buttocks. The attention was exciting to her, and tiny rows of goose bumps broke out wherever his long fingers moved.
The angular black woman lay down on the floor and spread her legs. She opened her arms invitingly, and Marnie Pierson was in them at once, kissing her, licking her lips and cheeks, covering her with ravishing attention. The secretary's softly rounded buttocks stuck high into the air, their smooth surface golden in the light of the dying fire.
"Looks like they've found something to keep them busy," Jerry said to Pat, grinning broadly at her. "How about us?" The dark haired girl looked him up and down. Now his penis was at full rise, long and elegantly slim. A thatch of copper curls covered its root, and she thought she could catch the scent of its musky arousal. It was difficult to tell for sure, though. The room was filled with the smells of sex. By way of answering him, Pat lay down on the floor beside the black girl and stretched out salaciously. "Well," she purred, smiling up at him, "What are you waiting for?" The boy fell to his knees. Quickly, he bowed his head and started trailing his wet, pink tongue over Pat's flat, trembling belly. She giggled softly, her fingers playing through his long hair, encouraging him, urging him on. His hands were busy too, one of them running over the tenderly sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, the other exploring her softly mounding breasts. He was playing her like an instrument. For one so young, she thought, he had apparently been around a lot.
Pat found herself instantly aroused. Soft, mewling sounds issued from her throat. She threw her head back, closed her eyes, and just let it all happen. All about her, she could hear the guests in various stages of orgasm. It was like being in some wild sex maniac's dream, being caught up in a foreign realm of sensual magic.
Looking to the side, she saw that Marnie was now back in her favorite position, sucking the sweet, flowing juices from her black companion's quivering, cleanly shaved pussy. Her buttocks were still high in the air, and the invitation was too much to be resisted. Jean, the blonde girl who had entertained earlier, swooped down from nowhere. Naked as the rest, she was like a perfectly formed child, a classic Greek statue come to life. She knelt behind Marnie, and her full, red lips fell at once to kissing the silken flesh of the woman's fleshy cheeks. Marnie moaned lewdly, wriggling her buttocks from side to side, at the same time never missing a stroke in her frantic tonguing of the black cunt.
Pat caught herself wondering what had happened to Jimmy, the girl's blond partner, and suddenly, he was kneeling beside her. "Hi," he whispered, "remember me?" Pat reached up impulsively and put her arms around his neck. Their lips met, the sweet wine of their spittle flowing between their open mouths. In seconds, Jimmy's hands were running competition to the other boy's over her breasts, and Pat arched her fine back, silently begging them to do as they liked. Fingers pinched and twisted her succulent, puckery nipples, and Jerry's mouth was now concentrating on the sparse fuzz of her cuntal mound. He pulled the hairs through his teeth, teasing her, bringing momentary pain, making her feel wanted and filled with life.
Suddenly, she felt the skinny youth's tongue thrust in between her blood engorged pussy lips, and her moaning deepened to a jungle sound. His tongue entered her vagina, just as Jimmy's tongue dug deeply into her mouth, tickling the roof of it, engaging her own wet weapon in loving battle.
Pat felt another hand. Looking over, she saw that the black girl was toying with her breast, even as Marnie coaxed her up toward maddening climax with her ever licking tongue. Pat was the center of attention. Never in her life had it been like this before. She wiggled her pelvis salaciously, lifting it to offer all of herself to the boy licking her crotch. Immediately, he scooted between her legs. He's going to fuck me now, she thought. I can't wait. But he did not, not right away. He continued his frantic licking, almost as if he were in competition with the female slurping loudly only inches from his side. Little by little, he lifted Pat's knees, spreading them wide and exposing her completely to his wet, salivating mouth. She felt his tongue tip touch the bottom edge of her inflamed slit and then move surely and deliberately on down over the hard area between her cunt and her anal crack. What if he finds Roush's left over cum, she wondered. What would he think? Who cared? She relaxed and concentrated on Jimmy. He was kissing down over her dimpled chin now, stopping to bite it playfully with his sharp, superbly white teeth. She giggled. The sensation of his teeth on her sensitive flesh went straight to her crotch, and she felt the flow of juices quicken.
Jerry's tongue touched her asshole. Pat let out a sharp, high pitched cry and reached down, spreading her own cheeks for him. Let him delve as deeply as he liked. She was open territory now. Stanley Roush had taken care of that. Perhaps it was the price of her stardom. If so, it was an easy one to pay.
Jimmy moved down over her long, slim neck, kissing and laving, pausing to suck playfully at her skin. Jerry's tongue was deep, deep inside her now, exploring her rectal gateway. Maybe he wanted to put his penis there, the way the producer had done. Pat was not certain she could take that kind of screwing again so soon, but she was hot enough to try if that was what he wanted.
Jimmy had reached her breasts, and he stopped to kiss the hand of the black girl, who was still caressing them. Then he began to suck, vacuuming her tender, puckery nipple in between his lips and squeezing gently. Flames leaped up in the girl's hot breast, and she squirmed on the carpet, carried away with raw passion.
Now the other boy's tongue left her anus. Was he losing interest, she wondered. Then she sensed something new, something blunt and fleshy, pushing at the pulsing lips of her inflamed pussy. She was going to be fucked. Pat held her breath. Could all this be happening to her at once; the black woman toying with one nipple while the magnificent Jimmy ate at the other, and now the slim youth between her legs getting ready to push his long pencil-like penis far up into her belly. She arched her hips up off the carpet to him, offering her body, inviting him to bathe in the well of pleasure that was her vagina.
The boy sank into her. She felt her taut lips push aside, felt his turgid member slide slowly and steadily onward. A soft, gurgling cry escaped her as she threw back her head, letting it loll from side to side on the rug.
The tall black girl was at climax. Mamie's educated tongue had done its sensuous work. As it wrapped around the negress' clitoris again and again, the girl raved with pleasure, sobbing and crying out a steady stream of obscenity. Marnie slurped mightily, drinking down all she could get of the sweet, female juice that spurted to her from the long, black-edged slit.
Jerry was in the full way, sounding Pat's fleshy, warm depths, rotating his slim hips from side to side to wipe his knobbish head over every inch of her sexual interior. Rasping cries of pure, rawly alive pleasure came from her gaping mouth. She rocked and writhed on the floor, rising to meet his pile driving thrusts.
Jimmy raised his face from her seething breast for a moment. "Pull my cock," he whispered hoarsely, "jack me off." He moved around to where Pat could grasp his long, thick penis in her palm. It was burning, hot as fire. She knew it would not be long before the classically handsome blond vomited a pent up load into her willing hand.
Jean, Jimmy's dance partner, had moved her laving mouth down between Mamie's butt cheeks, tracing along her warm, hairless crack to delve deeply into her sweet, spicy anus. She ran her wet, pink tongue over the tiny convolutions of the rectal muscles and pushed inward until she was fucking the woman vigorously with her mouth. Just as the black girl climaxed, Jean moved again, now getting down in between Mamie's widely splayed knees. Lying on her back, she looked up into the secretary's succulent, moistly inviting twat. It oozed big drops of sweet sexual juice, and Jean could not wait to suck them away and into her demanding throat. She raised her head, and her lips made contact with the lips of Mamie's sopping pussy. The older woman grunted in satisfaction even as she was lapping up the last bits of her black friend's cuntal gushings.
Jerry's cock moved in and out of Pat's body like a steel piston. His trim buttocks flexed and dimpled as he screwed, side to side in out again, again, again. His young body was covered with a heavy layer of sweat, and it fell from his chest, splashing and puddling on the girl's smooth, heaving belly.
With a great deal of struggle, Marnie and the black woman changed position, Marnie moving slowly so that Jean would not miss one stroke of her wild, urgent cunt-tonguing. The negress got to her hands and knees. Her face was only inches from Pat's heaving breast. She looked down at its tiny, puckered nipple, her dark eyes glittering hungrily. With one quick swoop, she sucked it between her thick, rubbery lips and began laving it wildly with her tongue, just as Jimmy was doing to its mate. She suctioned harder, taking as much of the soft, yielding flesh into her mouth as she could, nipping at it with her sharp, whitely smooth teeth.
Pat cried out, beside herself with pleasure and gentle pain. One man was sucking her breast, and now a woman. Jerry still punished her drooling twat, pushing into her so deeply she felt as though his fleshy cockhead might come out through her mouth.
Marnie was looking down into Pat's face, her cheeks still shiny with the black girl's cuntal leakings. "God, you're beautiful!" she whispered. "We will make you a star. You'll see." She kissed the girl full on the lips, and Pat's nostrils were overwhelmed with the scent of climaxed cunt.
Marnie dug her long tongue into Pat's mouth, claiming the hot depths of it for her own. Still jacking the blond boy's swelling, throbbing penis with one hand, Pat reached with the other to caress lovingly at Mamie's pendulous, melon shaped breasts, exploring and squeezing the nipples between her thumb and forefinger. Pat grunted and shoved her hot, squirming tongue further into the teenager's mouth.
Pat's body was a melting, expanding sea of pure pleasure. Every sensation imaginable ran through her. The very wickedness of giving herself over to four people at once for their pleasure as well as her own was beyond her lewdest dreams. One hand on an expanding phallus, one on a swelling breast, mouths at her nipples, making them so swollen they were erect with pain. Best of all was the hotly, thickly hard penis ramming into her greedily trembling pussy. It thrust again and again in an established pattern of movement, and repeated sensations of lustful pleasure coursed through her hot blooded veins.
Jimmy raised his head from his sucking. She felt his huge phallus grow even larger in her fist. "Awwwwwwwwww," he groaned, "I'm commmmmmmmmming. I can't hold it off!"
"Quick! Get up here so she and I can eat it," Marnie cried, practically drooling in anticipation. The blond boy knelt above their faces, and Pat and Marnie clamped their lips over his hugely swollen knob. The hotness of his flesh nearly burned their mouths as they sucked, playing their teasing tongues over the marble smooth flesh. The deluge began. Jimmy threw his head back and shouted so loudly it echoed off the ceiling. "Take it, you cunts. Take my hot cum!"
Sucking and drinking, the two women took in his streamers of hot, viscous fluid. Their lips roamed over his knobbish head, fighting for his wiggling seed, their wet tongues touching one another, meeting at the man's deep, spurting slit, circling over his turgid, satin smooth flesh, kissing the halves of his mighty head.
Pat felt the deluge rising within her. There was no way to stop it now, nor did she want to do so. At the same time, Jerry's long penis grew all the more stiff, flowering suddenly into its fullest growth.
"OH SWEET JESUS!" the youth shouted. "I'M COMMMMMMMMMMING SO HARD. Gonna blast you, blast your cunt wide open." He writhed between her legs, and Pat felt the first of his hot sperm gush into her.
She replied with her own crashing, vividly excruciating climax. It came upon her in wave after wave. She bounced from one climax to another, rebounding ever higher on the endless ladder of raw, sensual arousal. Her whole back left the floor as she bounced with passion, as though a million volts of electricity were coursing through her burning flesh.
"OH, GOD OH GOD HOLY GOD!!!!" she moaned. "I CAN'T STAND IT! I'M GONNA DIE DIE DIE!" She fell sobbing and nearly unsensed back onto the floor. After a long time, the sex cluster moved apart, except for young Jean, who was still sucking and licking wildly at Mamie's flaming twat. The rest were too exhausted to do more than lie huddled against one another, listening to the sounds of sex that came from all about them. The smells of sweet burning pot and of raw sexual essence filled their flaring nostrils. Pat found herself becoming aroused all over again, even though such a thing did not seem possible.
Her glazed eyes focused on the scene before her. A large breasted blonde woman stood with her legs spread wide. An oriental man, compact and muscular, knelt before her, the dim firelight reflecting off his superb physique. His arms around the standing woman, he ate her out like a wild animal.
Behind her, another man, a massively built black athlete, dug his wet, pink tongue deep into her ass. The woman could hardly stand, nearly swooning with sexual pleasure. Besides that, the glazed look on her face revealed she was so stoned she did not even seem to know where she was.
Circling the tableau, concentrating on every lewd detail of it, was yet another naked man, his long, thick penis jutting like a steel rod in front of him. It was Bartley Jonas. Hunching and then stretching, he was pretending to photograph the orgy from every angle. As if he held his beloved camera, he pretended to squint furiously through the lens, seeking just the right, most provocatively perfect shot. To Pat there was something immensely grotesque about his performance. Still, she knew she had to talk to him, to tell him about her good fortune with Stanley Roush.
Marnie reached out and held her back. "Forget about that one, Baby. He's a nobody. After tonight you don't need him, and you won't, ever again. It's best to steer clear of types like him."
Pat relaxed back into the woman's persuasive arms, just as Marnie began her wild climax against the sucking Jean's hard mouth.
She threw herself onto her king-size bed and sobbed uncontrollably, her body wracked with fear.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Pat's first film was a gangster movie. It was a low budget production, and she had only a minor role. Nevertheless, it was a beginning. Everything Stanley Roush had promised her was true. She had been given an instant career in films, handed to her on a silver platter. She was not a star, not by any means, not yet. The studio was grooming her, though, giving her a big buildup, preparing her for an important place in its long range plan. Two or three photo sessions a day were not unusual, and the wardrobe department fitted her with the most exquisite clothing imaginable. Fan magazines were beginning to mention her stage name more and more frequently.
That stage name was something she was not too happy about. Stanley Roush himself decided it should be Patricia Norwalk. Patricia! She still hated the name, but she had learned early not to question any of Mr. Roush's decisions. He was the boss, and no one ever forgot it.
Pat sat on the broad, sunny deck of her penthouse apartment, looking out over the awakening city. She had heard rumors that the studio was looking for a large house for her, something suited to the needs of a budding star, but that would happen only after the release of her next film. She had been promised a major supporting role in it, and it was slated to play the first run houses all over the country. Unless something absolutely unforeseen happened, the movie would establish her. Her initial screen test had convinced everyone at the studio of her potential. On film, her face several hundred times normal size, she had an exciting sensual innocence that appealed to men and women alike.
The publicity department was taking no chances with her image. They set up any number of dates for her with aspiring male actors. She went with them to film premiers, benefits, nightclub shows, and official parties, always displaying a white toothed smile, trying carefully not to squint as thousands of flashbulbs went off in her face.
To Pat's dismay, at least half of her studio supplied escorts turned out to be gay. They could hardly wait to drop her off after the arranged date so that they could be about their business. The dates who were straight usually ended up spending the night with her. Pat saw to that. She was no longer shy in any way. Maybe it was the new tranquilizers the studio doctor had prescribed for her. Whenever she took them, she was relaxed and completely able to deal with any situation that might happen to arise. Sometimes it took two of the capsules to do the job, but she had to admit they worked. The doctor had said something about her needing to watch her drinking when she took the pills, but she did not pay much attention to that. She had herself under control. She was only on her second gin and tonic now, and it was nearly noon. Gin, she had discovered, was a good thing to drink in the morning, particularly after a wild, all night party with plenty of drugs and drinking. She was attending a lot of those parties now. Sometimes she thought back to how awed she had been that night at Stanley Roush's beach house. That party was tame compared to some of the ones she had been to lately.
Tonight, she thought to herself as she stretched lazily in her deck chair, it would be her turn. She was giving the party, her first. Of course, the studio had arranged everything. All she had to do was act as hostess. Unfortunately, the photographers would be there, so she would have no fun. This night would be strictly work. Still, no one could predict what might happen late in the evening, after the reporters and studio brass had left for the night. Pat dozed in the sunlight, secure in the knowledge that her maid would call her in plenty of time to bathe and dress before the makeup man arrived.
* * *
The party had gone well. Pat said good night to the last reporter, closed the door behind him, and surveyed the crowd. They seemed to be the same familiar group, the people she had spent so many late nights with lately. The faces of a few of them were new, but she knew the type, people dedicated to the hedonistic pursuit of sex of any type as long as it pleased them.
She reached into the covered jar on the hall table and found what she was looking for, the tiny red pills, the uppers she had secured on the black market. Quickly, she gulped two of them down, chasing them with a huge gulp of scotch.
Pat drifted across the living room. Already her remaining guests were beginning to disrobe, some of them dancing lewdly more or less in time to the loud stereo music. It was as though some silent signal had been given, she thought. The moment she closed the door on the public, the world, the party began.
She picked her way through the crowded room, hands reaching out to touch her on the crotch, the breasts, on her pert, tightly encased buttocks. Pat did not stop to heed any of them. She knew exactly what she wanted and exactly where to find it.
Quietly, she opened the door to her bedroom. At first she could see only blackness, but she knew that, according to the silent code of her hedonistic set, the master bedroom was always the center of group sex, anonymous and, therefore, all the more exciting.
Pat's eyes began to adjust, and she could see some of the activity on her huge, king-size bed. She closed the door quietly. The high ceilinged room was filled with the sounds of heavy sex, the moans, groans, grunting, labored breathing, and flesh slapping against naked, willing flesh.
This was what she liked best, Pat thought; the thrill of being immersed in sweating bodies, doing what she liked with them as though they were toys created by some master for her particular sensual pleasure.
A dark figure left the bed and drifted over to her. Without a word, the naked man let his hands cup her breasts. They began at once to tingle, and Pat could feel her nipples going immediately erect. The man's warm, full lips brushed against hers, and she opened her mouth to him.
Pat started getting rid of her clothing, moving slowly and sensuously as if she were a snake shedding its outgrown skin. Her head was fogging up from the combination of pills and liquor, and she could not remember how to open her belt. The naked man helped, his fingers sure and commanding. In less than a minute, she was nude.
Taking her by the hand as though she were a child, the man led her over to the bed. She stood looking down at it. How strange, she thought, this was her bed, where she slept almost every night, and it was covered with writhing, coupling strangers. They formed a multilimbed machine, designed for and dedicated to sex. Pat could not decide where to enter it. Then, suddenly, her mind was made up for her. A hand reached out, and its palm cupped itself over her sizzling cleft. She could not tell whether it belonged to a man or a woman, and she did not care. All she knew was that it felt good, and she pushed her pelvis forward, bumping her pussy into the gently exploring fingers. Slowly, the hand pulled her to the edge of the mattress.
Soft, full lips began caressing her legs and thighs, working their way up slowly to her fleecy vee. Even though she squinted against the darkness, Pat could not tell who was touching her or how many of them there were. All she really knew was that her level of arousal was growing by the second.
She spotted an up pointing penis in the darkness. It was monstrous, one of the largest she had ever seen. It was crowned by a heavy, dark patch of pubic fuzz, and she could make out the gigantic, cum laden balls at its base. Leaning forward, she sucked it into her mouth, caressing it with her tightly ovaled lips. The hand at her crotch helped ease her up onto the bed, and she knelt between the man's hairy legs, sucking his penis with total concentration.
"Let's have a little light in here," someone said. "I like to see who I'm fucking." Several people laughed, and someone reached out and flicked on the bedside lamp. The huge room was bathed in dim light, enough so that faces and bodies were recognizable. Pat glanced up at the man whose cock she was sucking. He was handsome, with a shock of black hair hanging down over his forehead. His hands behind his head, he watched the girl work on him, a smile of amusement on his lips.
Pat felt a mouth at her buttocks now, and she quivered, raw passion rushing through her hot veins. A hot, wet, thickly squirming tongue was pushing its way into her anal tunnel. She longed to be fucked there. Ever since that night with Stanley Roush, she loved nothing more. She wiggled her buttocks in open invitation. In a moment, perhaps the writhing tongue would be replaced by a virile erection. If that did not happen, she would sit on the one she was laving with her expert tongue. But that would not be nearly as exciting as being skewered from each end, hanging like she were a hunk of meat ready to be roasted.
Pat glanced back over her shoulder at the person eating out her anal canal. There would be no penis. It was a woman. The face was puffy, and she looked older than she apparently was. Too much liquor and too many drug trips, Pat thought. She must have been beautiful once, but now her face was lined, huge bags showing beneath her eyes. Even naked, she looked unkempt.
The woman smiled at her. "You don't remember me, do you?"
Pat shook her head, confused. "No. I don't."
"I remember you, though. You're even more beautiful than you were then. I'm Charlene. I used to model for Bartley Jonas. You came in one day to deliver something, an orange parasol. Now do you remember?"
It all came flooding back to Pat now. This worn out female was the first woman she had ever had sex with. At the time she thought Charlene was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen.
"Yes, now I remember," she whispered. "You ought to remember all your old friends, you know. Take Bart, for instance. You should get in-touch with him. Things aren't going so well for him right now. He was asking about you last time I saw him, wanted to know whether I'd run into you since I moved to Hollywood. He said he's tried to write several times, but the studio sends the letters back. What he wanted was your home address. Isn't it interesting that I got asked along to this party? Here we are, and now I can let our old friend, Bart, know how to reach you personally."
Without warning, Pat leaped to her feet. Standing on the body covered bed, she started shouting and waving her arms frantically. "Get out, all of you. The party's over! Pick up your goddamn clothes and get the fuck out of here. NOW! Do you hear? NOW!"
As though there had been an explosion, the crowd grew silent. Then, murmuring quietly among themselves, they picked up their things, dressed silently, and left in a subdued wave.
In less than twenty minutes, Pat was all alone. She looked about her. The penthouse was a shambles, everything out of place, glasses on every table top, cigarettes smoldering in the ashtrays.
CHAPTER NINE
Three days later, the envelope arrived. It was very plain, but it had come special delivery. Pat sat staring at it for a long time, instinctively knowing what it contained. Her fingers shaking out of control, she ripped it open.
Inside was a photograph, torn in two pieces. It showed her face and the face of Charlene, as she had looked the day they met. The bottom half of the picture was missing, and Pat knew only too well what it would show. She read the note scrawled on the back of the half she had.
"Be at my studio at 10:00 pm on Tuesday. We need to talk."
The note was not signed. It did not have to be.
Pat glanced at the clock. It was nearly five in the afternoon, and it was Tuesday. She picked up the phone and called Stanley Roush's office. "Let me speak to Mr. Roush," she said, her voice shaking. Roush would know what to do about the blackmail threat. He had bought photos from Jonas, and he had warned Pat how important it was that she never pose for any such shots again. He would know exactly how to handle this situation.
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. Pat drummed her fingers nervously against the marble table top.
"Thank you for waiting," came the operator's voice. "Mr. Roush is not in."
"This is Patricia Norwalk. Please have him call me the minute he comes to the office."
"I'm afraid that's impossible, Miss Norwalk. Mr. Roush left to go on location in Ecuador this morning."
"Then let me speak to Marnie, his secretary."
"Mr. Roush took Miss Person with him. Sorry, Miss Norwalk." Pat hung up the telephone and sat for a moment as though she had been turned to stone. There was no one to help her. She would have to take care of it herself. She called downstairs to have her car brought around, dressed quickly, and left for the long drive to Bartley Jonas' studio.
She tore down the freeway, the roar of the sports car's engine loud in her ears. The studio had loaned it to her for a few weeks. It was supposed to fit her image, young, vital, and full of life. Right now she felt like anything but that. For the first time, she was facing real terror. If only she had made sure to get those photos and the negatives for them right at the beginning. Stanley Roush could have arranged it. All she would have had to do was ask. The trouble was it never occurred to her. How stupid she had been, how naive. Now there was no way of knowing how much Bartley would want to repress them. The payments might go on all the rest of her life. Any magazine would pay thousands for them, even if they were too hot to print. Having them in their possession, they could describe them to their hungry readers in lurid detail. Her career would be ruined before it really began.
Pat was not sure what Bartley Jonas would say to her or what deal he would try to make. Her personal budget did not contain money enough to satisfy a blackmail demand. The studio could cover it, of course, perhaps putting the photographer on some kind of phony retainer. It was simply a question of whether the executives thought her future was worth that kind of investment. The best she could hope to accomplish now was to convince Bartley to wait until she had a chance to speak to Stanley Roush.
Reaching into her purse, Pat found two of her tranquilizers. She had taken two of them before she left the penthouse, but they had not calmed her at all. Feeling underneath the seat, she closed her fingers around the neck of the bottle one of her dates had stashed there last week. She uncorked it, popped the pills into her mouth, and washed them down with a large mouthful of vodka. It burned all the way down, and it felt good, warming her whole body. She took another mouthful, and another.
Soon the tranquilizers began to work. The scenery went whizzing by, and she felt as though she were driving through some sort of dream. She concentrated carefully on the center line to keep from weaving. She could handle the situation just fine. She would handle Bartley Jonas too. Who was he anyway? The man was nothing but a small time photographer who made his living by peddling pictures of cheap models like Charlene. Charlene, that bitch!
Tomorrow Pat would see to it that she was taken care of too. She would never work again, at least not in Hollywood. Just a word to the right people at the studio was all it would take. Pat would nip her in the bud. Those creeps would learn not to cross her. After all, she was Patricia Norwalk, and she was a star.
Pat drove down the main street of the town where she had lived. Nothing was changed. Strange, she thought. It seemed an eternity since she had left for Hollywood with Stanley Roush. How long had it been, really? She could not remember. Maybe she never had lived here at all. Pat shook her head, trying to rid herself of the drug induced fog. Her confidence was going. She took more pills, more vodka. By the time she pulled into the alley behind Jonas' studio, she felt fine. She was ready for anything the bastard might try to pull.
Heading up the back stairs, she turned down the hall. The door to the outer office was ajar, just the way she remembered it always being. She entered quietly and stood in the empty office. Bartley would not be expecting her until ten. She had the advantage of surprise.
Pat walked back into the studio. There was Bartley, bent over his camera, aiming it, getting ready for the next day's sessions.
"Hello, Bart," she said, her voice almost a whisper.
The man looked up in surprise. "Pat!" he said.
"I got your note."
"Oh, yeah. Glad you came down. I thought you'd be here at ten, though." He seemed to fumble for words. Good, Pat thought, let him squirm.
"What do you mean, glad I came down? You told me to be here, and you made sure I would with that cleverly ripped photo you sent." Bartley smiled sardonically. "I thought you might remember the picture. If you want to see more, I have the rest of those shots right here." He walked over to the filing cabinet and pulled open the top drawer.
Look at him, Pat thought to herself. He actually thinks he's in control. Bartley came back to where she was standing, a large, manila envelope in his hand. Opening it slowly, he acted as though he were giving Pat some kind of present. With one quick gesture, he spread the eight by ten glossy prints on the table, grinning sadistically.
Pat looked down at the pictures. Could that really be her? Every detail was there. Charlene eating her young cunt, the two of them kissing with open mouths, everything. Her hunch had been right. There was more than enough to ruin her.
"Where are the negatives?" she asked, fighting to keep her tone even.
"Right there in the file drawer. You'd be amazed at the stuff I've got in those files. A lot of people would."
"And do you try to pull on a lot of people what you're pulling on me?"
Bartley chuckled. "What do you think I'm trying to pull on you, Kid?"
"The word, I believe, is blackmail."
The photographer threw back his head and laughed. "Blackmail? Let's just say I'm trying to get you to show your gratitude to me for putting you where you are today."
"I'm grateful to you, Bart. I always have been."
"You have a funny way of showing it," the man snapped, scowling at her. "Don't you remember that night at Roush's beach house? Don't you know that you went off to Hollywood without even saying good-bye? Don't you realize I haven't heard from you since?"
"Yes, well ... I ... I was in such a hurry. It all happened so fast, and ... Pat stammered. She could feel her confidence sinking again. She wished she had a drink. Feeling into the pocket of her slacks, she hoped for more pills. There were none there. She could feel the cold perspiration running down her spine, and she was hot and chilled all at the same time. What did Bartley Jonas mean by putting her in this state? What had she ever done to deserve this? All she wanted was to be famous. Was that so bad? She deserved that much. Everybody did. She was Patricia Norwalk, and she was going to be a star. She loved the parties, the drugs, the ever present sex with people she hardly knew, glamorous, uninhibited people. Bartley Jonas wanted to take all that away from her, and she hated him for it.
"You were in such a hurry?" the photographer asked, mocking her. "And what about all the months between then and now? Are you still in a hurry, too much in a hurry to stop and thank the man who made you?"
"How much do you want?" Pat asked with a cold calmness she did not feel.
Bartley shook his head. "Nothing," he said simply.
"Nothing? What do you mean?"
"I just want you to know I have the negatives, and that I can sell them any time. I will too, no matter how big a star you become."
Suddenly, it was clear. "So that's it. You want control over my life. You want to be able to smash me like a bug whenever you feel like it."
The man nodded slowly. "Something like that. Maybe I never will, and then again...." He was smirking at her, his face a grim parody of a smile.
With an angry sweep of her arm, Pat threw the photos to the floor. "My, my, don't we have a temper, now that we're famous!" Bartley said, chuckling. "Do the pictures disturb you? I know all about you Hollywood types. You do whatever you want to do, as long as nobody gets the evidence on film. I've been to a few of those parties, the ones where they frisk you at the door to make sure you're not carrying a camera. I dreamed of trying to sneak one in, but with people like you around, I don't have to. Maybe I'll just decide to come to a few of the parties you throw. Would you like that?" He was smirking at her again.
Suddenly, Pat felt overwhelmed by the situation, totally beaten. "Okay," she sighed, "what do I have to do?"
"That's more like it. A little humility is always so touching. For starters, you can show your appreciation in a very direct way. You make me horny, Kid. You always have. How about taking care of my hardon for me?" He leaned back against the table. Yanking open the buckle of his belt he ordered, "Get down on your knees."
Pat knelt on the floor. She looked up at the photographer, her face even with the man's burgeoning crotch. She reached for his zipper slide, but he slapped her hand away.
"Not that way. It's too easy. Pull it down with your teeth, like the street scum you are." Leaning back, he arched his pelvis forward demandingly. With her tongue, Pat found the zipper tab. She caught it between her teeth. What if she chipped them? The studio people would scream at her if that happened. They had already spent thousands of dollars on her dental work. A tooth was huge on screen. It had to appear perfect.
Clutching the tab in her mouth, Pat pulled downward. Bit by bit, the man's fly began to open. As the wide vee opened in the front of Bartley's pants, Pat could catch a whiff of male crotch. As it always did, the scent went straight to her pussy, and she felt arousal beginning despite her uncertainty and feeling of degradation. The zipper was down all the way now, and she could see Bartley's lush, moist looking pubic bush as well as the root of his already erect phallus. The hard tube of male flesh made a large ridge down his pants leg, and Pat wondered whether or not she would be allowed to pull it out into the open with her fingers.
"Now pull my pants down with your mouth, you fucking bitch dog. I'm giving the orders here, and you're going to do exactly what I tell you to from now on. Pull!" Holding the fabric of the slacks in her mouth, Pat pulled at it. Stubbornly, it did not move. She reached up instinctively to pull the slacks down over Bart's thighs, but the man slapped her fingers hard, pushing them out of the way. Gripping harder, Pat gave another jerk. Her jaws hurt from the effort.
Little by little, the pants crept down Bartley's long legs. His long, meaty penis sprang into view, vibrating as if it were on a spring. A heavy drop of pre-seminal fluid already crowned its pulpy tip.
The mighty organ filled Pat's vision, and she licked her lips longingly, her nostrils flaring wide as she took in the delightful male scent. Bending forward, her mouth prepared for the musky taste of cock meat, the girl sought to swallow it.
Without warning, Bartley hit her hard along the side of her face and sent her sprawling onto the bare floor. She shook her head, trying to clear out the singing sensation in her head.
"Christ, Bitch, you really are hungry for prick, aren't you? No wonder everybody up in Hollywood is so crazy about you. All you're good at is sucking cock, and that's all you need. Well, I'll let you swallow my prick, but not until you've got my pants all the way down. And take off my shoes and socks too. Right now."
Getting to her hands and knees, Pat positioned herself at the man's feet. She managed after some fumbling to take one of his shoe laces between her lips, and she pulled at it. The knot came loose. What was she doing here, anyway? Who was this man, and why was he making all these demands? She ought to get back to the store. Mrs. Fenston would be wondering where she was. She had only come to make a delivery. What was it? Yes, an orange parasol. They had ordered it especially for him. Her head was still ringing from the blow, and she felt numb all over.
After much struggling, Pat managed to pull the man's shoe off. Next came his left one. For some reason, that was easier for her. Then it was time for the socks. She tried to pull them down by grasping the tops between her teeth, but neither one of them would budge.
"Pull them from the toes," Bartley growled, looking down at her disdainfully. "Can't you do anything right? How the fuck many times do they have to give you your cues, or do they just dub in all the dialogue later because you're too stupid to read?"
What was the man talking about? Didn't he know she worked at Fenston's Feminine Fashions, and that she had to get back there? Who did he think she was? No, not there. She worked someplace else now. She lived somewhere else. Pat could remember a big apartment, a view of a city. She could remember no more. She wished she had some more tranquilizers.
At last, her nostrils filled with the cheesy smell of feet, Pat managed to pull his socks off. She dropped them to the floor, one by one, wondering what she was supposed to do next. Maybe now she would have the opportunity to taste the long, succulent looking cock that bobbed so enticingly before her eyes.
Bartley sat back on the table. "So you're hot to eat my prick, are you?" he asked scornfully.
Hungrily, Pat looked him up and down, her eyes coming to rest again on the hard, shining end of his stiff erection. "Then first you have to clean my feet. Lick them off completely. Start with my toes and clean every inch of them just like the dog you are. Then we'll see about my cock." Pat fought to keep from retching. Slowly, her hands trembling, Pat took the heel of the man's right foot. Holding it up to her face, she began licking each toe carefully. She took first one and then another of them into her hot, wet mouth and cleansed it thoroughly, just as Bartley had ordered. The flavor was sour and overwhelmingly dirty tasting. She could taste all the grime and sweat hidden in the secret clefts of enclosed flesh. She closed her eyes tightly and licked hotly at it, trying to convince herself that she liked it. Her head was spinning. Was this really happening, or was the whole thing some fantastic, degrading nightmare.
As she worked, Bartley Jonas grunted approvingly. He looked down at her scornfully, his already hard penis jerking toward ever harder erection. Pat laved the sole of his narrow foot, cleaning his flesh, taking in the bitter, salty flavor. Finished, she transferred her attention to the left foot, giving it exactly the same thorough treatment as she had the first. Finally, the job completed, she let it drop to the floor.
"Yes," Pat said quietly. Bartley kicked her hard in the mouth, sending her skittering on her back across the bare floor. Splinters of wood bit into her back, and she groaned with pain, half losing consciousness as the back of her head smashed against the hard flooring.
The photographer stood above her, scowling menacingly down at her prone body. "I'm to be addressed as SIR, and don't you forget it. I'll teach you to keep the proper tone. If I like, I can beat that pretty face of yours to the point where nobody will ever want to take a picture of it again. I made you. Don't you ever forget it. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir," Pat muttered sullenly. "Tell me something, Pat," Bartley said, his tone changing completely to something almost friendly and conversational. "That night at Stanley Roush's place, that night when you forgot I existed, he took you into the bedroom. Do you remember?"
Pat nodded her head, wondering what the photographer was getting at.
"What did he make you do? Why did he make you a star?"
"Nothing. He just talked to me, that's all." Bartley Jonas threw back his head and guffawed loudly. "Oh, come on, you don't really expect me to believe that, do you? They say that Stanley Roush has a certain procedure he follows with all his new people, almost a ritual. They say he screws every one of them in the ass, no matter whether it's a man or a woman. He treats everybody the same, like they were pieces of meat. Is that how he treats you?" He gave her a nudge with the tips of his toes.
With a blood curdling scream, Pat leaped to her feet. She pushed into Bartley's chest with both palms. A startled look on his face, the man took a step backwards and lost his balance. He fell back, his head cracking loudly against the corner of the table. From there he slumped to the floor.
Pat looked down at him, trying to remember who he was and why she had pushed him. It was obvious he needed help. His head was tilted at a crazy angle. He looked like a rag doll discarded by a willful child. Before she could do anything, though, she had to have something to clear her head, something like a drink.
In a haze, she wandered into Bartley's apartment. Where had the liquor been kept? It had been so long ago, or had it been last night when she gave him the blow job, and then he threatened to force his huge erection up her anus. How unnatural! How could anyone even think of such a thing? Perhaps that was why he was lying in the other room now. Perhaps she had pushed him down, fighting to protect her virgin rectum against his willful, anal rape.
No, that could not be right. She had run away. Then, what was she doing here now? Finding a bottle of scotch, she grabbed it and went back into the studio. Taking a deep drink from the open bottle, Pat looked down at Bartley Jonas. He had not moved. A trail of red trickled from his nostrils, more from his ears. She knelt and put her ear to his chest. His heartbeat was faint and fluttery, the sound of it erratic to her. As she listened, it disappeared altogether. Bartley Jonas was dead, and she had killed him.
Without letting herself feel the horror of what she had done, Pat got up, moving mechanically. She knew exactly what she had to do. Going to the filing cabinet, she removed the drawers one by one and dumped their sordid contents over the still, lifeless body. In the closet, she found a gallon of cleaning fluid. She poured it over the pile of photographs and negatives, lighted a match, and threw it at Bartley's leering face. As an explosion of flame leaped up, she ran out of the room and down the back stairs, the bottle of scotch clutched tightly in her hand.
She slipped behind the wheel of the sports car, started the engine, and sped out of the alley. As she drove down the street, she could see the flickering light springing up in the second floor windows of Bartley's building. They grew brighter and brighter.
She headed straight out of town, headed back to Hollywood and the safety of her penthouse and the world it represented.
CHAPTER TEN
The telephone ring pierced through Pat's veil of sleep. She opened her eyes groggily and looked at the clock. It was one in the afternoon. Last night had been another one of those parties. She had been losing herself in them more and more frequently since that night, the night when....
She picked up the receiver. "Hello," she said, trying not to slur the word.
"Patricia, this is Marnie Pierson. I hope I didn't wake you."
"No, of course not. It's afternoon. I've been up for hours." Why was she lying to Roush's secretary? Marnie was one of the biggest party people in Hollywood. She was the last person Pat needed to hide from. Still, there was that question of her image. The studio was so picky about it. It paid her to be careful.
"We just got back from Ecuador last night, and the first thing the boss asked me to do this afternoon was call and ask you to come in to the office and see him."
"What about?"
"I have no idea, but he acted as though it were important." Pat's temples began to pound, and she reached for the bottle of vodka beside the bed. She had put her tranquilizers somewhere last night for safe keeping, and now she could not remember where they were. "What time does he want to see me?" she asked.
"Whenever you can get here. See you then. Good-bye, Honey." An hour later, Pat sat fidgeting in Stanley Roush's outer office. Someone had probably just reported her drinking and drug taking again, and he wanted to give her his standard, fatherly lecture. That was all it was, at least so she hoped.
"Mr. Roush will see you now," chirped the blonde, heavily made up receptionist. The twelve foot doors to Roush's inner office slid open automatically, and Pat entered the huge room. The producer sprang to his feet from behind his immense, walnut desk and ushered her to a seat.
"Wonderful to see you, Baby. You look great, just great. I hear your new picture's finished, and the boys downstairs tell me it's sure to be a big hit. Congratulations!" His manner was loud and expansive, too expansive, Pat thought to herself uncomfortably.
"Tell me, Baby," he said, putting his hand on her knee, "Did anything unusual happen around here while I was away?"
"No, not really," Pat replied guardedly. "Just the parties, like always, hey? You young people get invited to so many parties these days." Roush laughed, and his laughter sounded artificial.
"And work. The picture took a lot of time."
"Of course, of course. And time well spent too," the producer replied, his fingers squeezing into the flesh of Pat's knee. He turned suddenly serious. "I had some very sad news when I returned."
Here it was, the lecture. Pat felt almost relieved. At least it was nothing worse.
"Do you remember our old friend, Bartley Jonas? I believe he's the one who brought you to my attention, isn't that right?"
Pat's heart skipped. "Yes, that's right," she said woodenly. "What about him?"
"He was killed, quite tragically. A late night fire at his studio. It destroyed the place completely and him along with it. Poor guy."
"I think I did hear something about it. I don't remember," Pat said. Was that all? Was the producer simply trying to share his supposed grief with her? "There's something more too," Roush said, his hand creeping on up Pat's inner thigh. "A woman came to see me, was here first thing this morning. She's a broken down model named Charlou or something like that. You ever hear of her?"
"No, not that I can remember." Pat's heart was pounding so loudly, she wondered whether the producer could hear it.
"That's funny. She claimed to be the one you posed with in that first series of shots Bartley took of you, the ones in which you were so, how shall I say it, indiscrete."
"Oh?"
"Yes. You'd never know it to look at her now, though. She gave me some crazy story about Bartley Jonas having some negatives, probably of those photos of the two of you. Funny, but I still have the ones I bought. They're in my safe. I suppose now that Bartley's gone mine are the only prints in existence." He grinned broadly at Pat and then went on. "This model, the one who came to see me, said that Bartley planned to contact you shortly before he died, something about selling you those negatives. Did he get in touch with you?"
"No, never," Pat answered, trying to keep her voice from cracking. She could feel a stream of cold perspiration moving down her back.
"I was sure you wouldn't be a party to anything like that. To keep her quiet, though, I gave Charlene a job, a bit part in the South American film. It'll take her out of the country for six months. We'll find something else for her after that."
Relief swept over Pat. She was safe. Roush was protecting her. It was obvious that her employer knew she was lying about Bartley Jonas, but that did not matter. Everything was going to be all right.
"Oh, by the way," the producer said, suddenly scowling at her, "there have been reports about how much carousing around you're doing. That is to stop at once."
There was a finality about the man's tone that Pat did not like. This was not like the lectures he had given her in the past. All at once the picture was clear to her.
Bartley Jonas was not the only person capable of blackmail. Stanley Roush had invested heavily in Patricia Norwalk, and he was going to protect that investment.
"Yes, Sir," Pat replied quietly, loathing the feeling of the producer's fat fingers as they brushed over her crotch.
"Good. It's nice to know we understand each other so well!" He got up and began loosening his belt, while Pat looked on in horrified fascination. "Now," he continued, "take off your clothing and lie down on your stomach. You and I are going to get reacquainted, the way we did that first night back at my beach house. I wouldn't want you to forget how it's done. After all, you and I are going to be working together for a long time."
