The name of George Plimpton is probably familiar even to Americans who have not read his books, partly because of his unusual involvements in professional sports, and partly because his life story is one that could have been invented by Horatio Alger, last century's famous writer of books about boys who struck it rich.
Plimpton started out with several things going for him, of course. He was educated at Harvard, where he edited the Lampoon, and at Cambridge University. He became a highly respected literary figure as editor of the Paris Review. His family background was distinguished (his father is Francis T. Plimpton, a former ambassador and U.S. representative to the United Nations), and he was also blessed with wealth and good looks. Instead of opting for being a playboy and dilettante, however, he developed a prodigious appetite for hard work and experimentation. The results have been highly unusual.
Plimpton's first book was Out of My League, in which he described his experiences playing baseball with the All Stars, the first team to accept him as a temporary player and allow him to gain invaluable experience along with a good deal of physical punishment. Ernest Hemingway called this book, in which Plimpton told how he found himself pitching to Willie Mays in Yankee Stadium, "the dark side of the moon of Walter Mitty."
Plimpton next took up professional football, and persuaded the Detroit Lions to let him play long enough to enable him to write Paper Lion. About this book, the eminent critic Eliot Fremont-Smith said, "As this book reveals him, he is a man compounded of, among other things, endless curiosity, unshakable enthusiasm and nerve, and a deep respect for the world he enters. As a writer he is truthful without betraying anyone, modest but never falsely so, hilariously funny without once being arch. He makes his subject absolutely fascinating, football fan or no. How he fared is a tale to gladden the envious heart of any 'average weekend athlete,' or anyone else for that matter. One winces and laughs at the Paper Lion and then throughout this lovely book one begins to understand once more what it is all about."
Plimpton entered the world of professional golf to gather material for The Bogey Man, and since then has gone on to other exploits; his name is seldom out of the headlines for very has played tennis with Pancho Gonzalez, golf with Sam Snead and bridge with Oswald Jacoby as a partner. His three rounds with Archie Moore resulted in some torn nasal cartilage."
In many ways, then, George Plimpton is the epitome of the American Dream a kind of Jack Armstrong, the Ail-American Boy, come to life. That he had unusual opportunities to do so is beside the point when you give him his richly deserved credit for thinking of doing these things at all and the skill and courage he displayed in their execution. And perhaps most of all, one must thank him for demonstrating that the frequently maligned "American Dream" actually still exists.
Charlene Kane, the sixteen-year-old heroine of Girl Model for Sale, is another example of the young American who finds that dreams can come true (although, needless to say, her story is completely fictional). Charlene wants nothing so much as to be a successful fashion model. Like George Plimpton, she has a better-than-average opportunity because her mother, who is still well on the youthful side of forty, is an acknowledged winner in the fashion "game" already. Ironically, however, Charlene's mother turns out to be almost as much of a hindrance as a help. Aside from being able to introduce Charlene to some of the right people to get her started in her career, Sonja turns out to be an inherently destructive type and Charlene has to learn the painful lesson that it is better to go it alone, doing things her own way.
Charlene has other things going for her, too: things like brains, beauty and talent. And she needs all of them. For there are many people many cold, ruthless, self-centered men in the crassly commercial world she enters who think they can buy her outright. At first, in fact, they seem to succeed. It is only by remaining true to herself that Charlene is able to salvage any shred of dignity.
Yes, Charlene has dreams typically American dreams. In some ways they are very similar to the dreams of George Plimpton; in others, very different. And many of them turn to ashes in the course of her adventures. Her dreams of romance vanish, to be replaced by the reality of sordid sexual affairs. But you will have to read to the very last page of Girl Model for Sale to see which of her dreams remain untarnished and what triumphs she finally achieves. In doing so, you will be rewarded by a highly entertaining as well as an enlightening story.
-The Publishers
CHAPTER ONE
Charlene Kane stepped out of the car, straightened her short skirt, and turned to the boy. "Thanks, Tom," she said.
Tom smiled. "You don't think your mother will be mad, do you? It's two o'clock."
"Not my mother," Charlene laughed. "You know Sonja better than that!"
Then she leaned forward and gave the boy a smallish peck on the cheek, an incongruous peck in light of what they'd been doing earlier.
"Bye, for now," she said, and started up the walkway toward the shrub-lined house. It was a beautiful night and Charlene thought to herself it was a shame to walk indoors, away from it; this would be a perfect night for swimming in the nude. But no no time for that. Besides, she wasn't especially happy with the way the evening had turned out.
Tom had been nice enough and things had gone pleasantly, but she certainly hadn't been brought to the pitch of excitement she had anticipated. But then, maybe she had expected too much. Maybe her girl friends had been putting her on when they told her how way-out their sexual experiments had been. Maybe this this partly satisfactory, lukewarm experiment with Tom was all there was to it. She hoped not. And deep in the recesses of her mind, she thought not.
But, all in all, Tom had been nice, and though he hadn't provided what she sought, she none the less felt that she had been close for however short a period of time to someone. And that was a definite plus. Being shuttled, as she was, between her divorced parents, she had begun to feel like a much mailed but never accepted parcel.
Finally, the key worked in the sticky lock. She opened the door as quietly as possible, but, as always, it creaked. She loved the old house on Laurel Canyon and always looked forward to her court-approved visits with Mom. But this time, unfortunately, her usual joy was dampened. The circumstances of this homecoming were altogether different from those previous visits. This time, Charlene felt, her whole life was on the line. Earlier, she had had an urge to come straightaway to her mother to blurt out the awful recent events in a torrent of words and tears but then had recalled how her mother was always easier to talk to in the morning. She was glad, in retrospect, that she had accepted the date with Tom even if she had used him principally as an escape.
Of course, there was the possibility that Mom would still be out with one of the clients the male clothing buyers who made or broke the ready-wear manufacturers by their decisions, and who, in effect, dictated fashion industry trends as much as anyone. If so, there was no telling when she'd be home. For that matter, there was no certainty that Mom wasn't in Vegas or some other posh place, sopping up drinks, throwing away the buyer's expense-account money, having a hell of a good time, putting out. Oh, yes, Mom put out just as if it were going out of style. She had once told Charlene that whenever a man didn't proposition her the more directly the better she felt slighted, and, inevitably, angered. Mom by her own exaggerated account, that is had never turned down anyone who could walk or talk, or who was otherwise capable of functioning.
But that wasn't altogether strange, in Charlene's view; not if one first considered the demands and intrigues of the fashion industry. Girls young, not so young, even well-ripened, like Mom, though she could pass for twenty-five were called upon to do just about anything necessary to insure an account. A carload of crisp new pant suits, for example, might represent employment for hundreds of garment workers, and profit enough to sustain the interest of the investors. Yes, a sale like that pretty much justified whatever sacrifice it entailed.
Charlene closed the door quietly and allowed her eyes a few moments to adjust to the semi-lighted hallway.
Won't Mom be surprised when she finds me curled up in my own bed in the morning, Charlene thought. She momentarily considered waking her mother to announce her visit, but thought better of it,decided to be very quiet, just in case. Tomorrow would be soon enough to explain the unexpected visit. No, this was not just a visit. She would never be going back to her Dad. Not ever!
She caught a glimpse of herself in the antiqued hall mirror. Not bad, she thought, with a toss of her long blonde hair. A little disheveled maybe, from wearing the same clothes since morning, but she still didn't look too bad in her short summer dress with the matching panties. Mom, the old mannequin who'd never die, only pivot away she didn't mean that the way it sounded, she chided herself, but it was true, Mom would never quit had told her that mini dresses were out, that this summer's fashion was instead to wear very short skirts or dresses with matching panties. "Teenage fashion," she had qualified, and not for "old broads" like herself. And that was funny in itself. Sonja called herself an "old broad," but God help anyone else who might choose to call her that.
Anyway, in Charlene's view, her mother would probably accept the role of the little old lady on television who advertises the Greyhound Bus, or the next-door neighbor who tells the pretty young bride how to make coffee, before she'd ever give up the idea of modeling, or posing, or acting. Of course, she was a long way from that. In commercials she was the beautiful young mother whose perfect hands put her daughter's to shame. She also looked sensational walking down the runway in the tearooms of the better department stores modeling lavish Paris imports with elegant style.
It was fortunate, Charlene thought, as she removed her shoes to tiptoe up the squeaky stairs, that she kept a few clothes here, since this time she'd run off without even an overnight bag. Of course, she would no doubt find several new samples of next season's line hanging fresh and crisp in her closet. Obtaining these samples, Charlene suspected, was an "extra" bonus her mother received for being "extra" cooperative.
With each careful step upward and with each predictable squeak, she held her breath for fear that her breathing, added to the noise of the creaking, would cause her discovery. She conjured up a vision of all the termites holding hands to keep the old stairs from caving in. The thought made her almost laugh, but when she reached the top landing she slowly allowed herself to breathe again.
It was then, above the complete stillness of the house, that she heard the strange noises. As she crept down the hall the noises became louder. They were moans, maybe even strangled screams, but not the sort of screams one makes when frightened or hurt or angry, as she had been earlier that day during that awful scene with Dad.
She finally stood at the open door of her mother's luxurious bedroom. She could see everything plainly. The glow from a nearby candelabra threw dancing light upon the two forms in the over-large bed. Charlene felt a sudden shock, for she was certain one of those entwined bodies belonged to Mom. Yet, she reasoned, why should she be shocked? She knew very well what sort of things her mother did. But here she was personally viewing what she had heretofore only imagined, and the actuality of the thing was, indeed, somewhat shocking. But, as Charlene soon discovered, there is but a very thin line separating shock and excitement.
She stood transfixed, hypnotized, by the view of the writhing bodies.
"Oh, my God," she heard her mother moan, "it's so wonderful. What a huge, gorgeous cock! Yes. Oh, yes, fuck me hard and fast. It's so good." Her shapely model's legs were wrapped tightly around the man's hips as her own thrust forward to meet him. She seemed intent on taking as much of him as possible.
Charlene heard the man say, "You've got the sweetest, hottest, drippiest cunt in the world, baby. And you want me to fuck you every night, don't you? You beg me to fuck you every night. And you're not going to let anybody else fuck you, right?"
"Oh, yes, yes, darling," Sonja gasped. "Anything you say. You're the only man I want... Oh, God, I'm coming, I'm coming... oh, Christ, that big hard cock is going to kill me!"
Charlene could feel her own excitement rising. She could feel, as if by osmosis, her mother's hot passion flow through her own body. Hot fluids were building and secreting. And then, as she watched on, those same fluids and pressures announced their demand to be released. When she saw her mother's body shake in great tumultuous waves simultaneously grabbing the pillow and digging her tapered nails into it, so as not to rip into the man's back Charlene very nearly duplicated the older woman's orgasm. She was tempted to slip her hand into her panties and finger herself one touch would be enough, she thought but she was also enraptured on an intellectual level, and thus wanted to continue giving her sharp attention to the scene.
Now spent, obviously exhausted, the two perspiring bodies on the bed collapsed, supine, no longer entwined. At length, the man said, in a low voice, "Well, at least you didn't scratch my back to shreds. That was really nice."
"Oh, was it ever! Even if I did have to mangle that poor pillow instead of you, it was the greatest." Charlene, still hidden and stark motionless, was mildly curious about this last exchange, With Tom, earlier, she had experienced no desire whatever to scratch and claw, but then, she had experienced damned little desire of any sort nothing, certainly, approaching what she had just witnessed. Had she known the significance her mother and the man attached to those references to scratching and clawing, Charlene likely would have been greatly envious that anyone could actually rise to such throes of passion.
Sonja had clawed him fiercely the first time they were together. At the time, Jon hadn't minded too much he, too, had surrendered to passion but later, when he saw himself in the mirror, he had been furious. After all, Jon was an actor. He had a great body and there would surely be upcoming scripts which would call for a beautiful physique. If Sonja did that to him very often, he'd soon be out of business tanned skin and all.
Jon made sure she would never do it again. He taught her that no matter how passionately spaced-out she might be, she was to use the pillow, not his back. He didn't really want to slap the hell out of her as he had another earlier broad with similar inclinations. After all, Sonja's living depended on her magnificently silken skin and unmarred, chiseled features. She was quite a looker for thirty-five, who readily passed for twenty-five, and Jon was more than willing to help her perpetuate that illusion. It was, in the long run, to his benefit. Sonja knew lots of people.
He had taken corrective measures the second night. First he had turned her on by playing with her melonlike knockers, and then her red-hot cunt giving it a lick or two as a sort of promissory note against further payments to come. Then, just when she was moaning and begging to be fucked, he had pulled her off the bed onto the floor, where he peremptorily pushed her blonde head between his legs and ordered her to suck his cock. That wasn't unusual because she always sucked cock, and loved every minute of it, but this night he told her she should play with herself at the same time because she wasn't getting any more fucking.
"Why the hell not?" she had demanded, her large green eyes widening. "You're always able to get it up again, even if I blow you all the way."
"Not tonight, baby. You're going to remember not to cut me up, no matter how excited you get. Now, get that cock in your mouth like a good girl and give it a top-notch sucking, or you won't get fucked for a week."
She had obeyed, taking the rock-hard cock in one hand, licking it gently and lightly at first, then covering it with her warm mouth. Finally, after prolonged ministration in this manner, she gradually inserted the entire shaft into her mouth, moaning with deep satisfaction as she felt the bulbous glans lodge in her upper throat.
"Play with that hot cunt of yours while you're blowing me, baby."
She obeyed, moving two fingers into the slippery softness between her legs.
"That's right, baby," he cried, "give it to us both." He began moving his hips forcibly forward so as to meet her eager mouth head-on, and she sucked faster and faster and played with herself faster and faster until they were both beyond containment and exploded into massive, shaking releases.
But she hadn't believed his earlier threat. After she had attentively and lingeringly sucked him dry and licked every last drop of the filmy sweet fluid from his softening prick, she began anew. There was really no clear separation between the first session and the second, and his cock never really left her mouth. Jon did not object at all. Then, more earnestly, it seemed, Sonja began applying furious strokes, until his strength was fully returned and his turgid cock was, it seemed, larger than ever.
But then, even after such faithful labor, he hadn't thrust it into her aching cunt, despite her pleas. His word was good. He had commanded that she continue and then he had burst forth a second time into her mouth. After she had swallowed this second load and obediently licked the softening cock dry again, she asked, "How can you treat me like this, you sonofabitch?"
"I told you how it was going to be, baby. But just keep suckin' like you do, and I might give you time off for good behavior. You might get fucked sooner than you think."
"It damn well, better be tomorrow," she had retorted, "or I'll find somebody else who'll be happy to do the job."
He had pushed her further than anyone ever had, and Jon was no fool. The following night he had impaled her cunt right up to the hilt and ridden her forcefully for what seemed like hours. And nowadays he fucked her good and hard every night to be certain he was keeping her to himself. He drained her of all desire for other men.
Charlene stood fascinated at the doorway, still undiscovered. She could see his hoselike phallus plainly from where she stood and realized that she'd never before seen anything so utterly beautiful. Nothing had ever stirred her so strangely, pleasantly, as what she had just witnessed. Her own fumbling sexual endeavors with young Tom paled by comparison, She had thought she felt love and desire for Tom, but it was nothing next to this. Now she felt a goose-pimply excitement, a deep yearning, a burning gush of heat in her groin. Now she was aware of her empty vagina. She ached. If not for a cock, then maybe a hand at least that. Anything to touch her there. She could tell she was dripping wet, a condition she had never before experienced. At first, she felt almost giddy, and then, to add to her already peaked excitement, she saw her mother lean over that fabulously lovely male part and lick it with her tongue in slow, long strokes, then put her soft pliable lips over its beautiful tip and nibble and kiss it, and then suddenly thrust her wide-open mouth down over the whole great staff.
"Oh, baby," she heard the man groan. "You gotta be the greatest cocksucker in the world."
And then Charlene heard the mixed sounds groans of pleasure and wet sucking noises. She licked her own lips and wanted desperately to taste a gorgeous cock like that. She had never called it a cock before or thought of it as anything but the "thing," but now she fully understood it was a cock. The rooster was a cock and he was beautiful when he spread his feathers in display. So, too, a displayed man, a cock, was important and beautiful, perhaps the most artistically conceived and perfectly created jewel in all the world.
She couldn't stand it any longer. She was weak. She must succumb to the situation, she thought. She slid quietly to the floor just as the man was beginning to explode into what must have been the most heavenly sort of release. She knew that men ejaculated "white stuff and she could hear the urgent swallowings as her mother feasted upon the copious load of warm semen.
Then she heard the man moan, "That was the greatest, baby, just the greatest. It never felt so good. You always make it feel great, but this time you surpassed yourself, Sonja."
"And, you turned me on like never before, baby," Sonja murmured. "I think you made me come twenty times before you even fucked me."
"You deserve the best, doll. You're the greatest lay I ever had. And probably the best blow-job in the whole world."
Charlene reluctantly realized the scene had ended, and that she'd better tiptoe to her room before she was discovered.
Quietly cleaning up and then finding a pair of baby dolls, she crept into bed, where she lay fidgeting for what seemed hours. Sleep just wouldn't come because her insides still felt so terribly stirred. She had never thought of touching herself down there before, but now she could think of nothing else. When she had written a report on sex education in school, she had read that all children masturbated, but she couldn't see how that was true since she knew she hadn't, or at least, couldn't remember doing it.
She was as hot as ever, and then, as she relived the scenes she had just witnessed vicariously replacing her mother, of course she became even more aroused. She couldn't calm down, not even a little bit. There was no surcease, no palliative. Not really knowing or understanding why, she found herself pulling off her babydoll panties. Without volition, it seemed her hand went down to her hot, throbbing wetness. Oh, God, I'm dripping, she thought, absolutely dripping. My hand makes me feel better, it comforts me. She stroked herself, and then without warning, as if it might be a part of someone else's hand, her finger plunged into the wet folds of her vaginal lips. Next began a back-and-forth stroking over the taut little clitoris which she had always called her "button," but which now seemed to be the most centrally important thing in her life. In short minutes she developed an expertise which utterly belied her innocence.
Oh, God, that feels good, she whispered aloud as she began undulating her firm buttocks in tempo with her stroking. With her free hand she caressed her igloo-like breasts. Oh! God, it's really good! I have never felt so good in my life!
She opened her legs wide, and with two fingers rubbing over her moist crotch and into her burning insides, she pretended she was being ministered to by that beautiful male body in her mother's bed. Finally she thought perhaps she should stop, but found she couldn't. The hand seemed to have a life of its own. It just would not stop, just as it knew instinctively exactly what to do. Her mother had begged the man Jon, she had called him once to fuck her. Yes, that is what she was doing with her fingers: fucking herself. But she was pretending it was Jon Jon's fingers, tongue, cock, anything and it was the best thing she'd ever felt. She wished she could always feel this good. She knew she was just on the verge of something, something indefinable, and that it felt wonderful. She was reaching a high peak of pleasure that promised to end in something utterly delicious. Her busy little hand didn't stop, wouldn't stop, and then she felt an overwhelming heat surge through her, take her over. Her spine stiffened. She exploded into a million little pieces, and all the while her hand kept on, relentlessly, and she kept mounting up into more and more pleasure-able little peaks that finally shattered into one tremendous release.
She lay there, drained, her hand soaked and seemingly glued to her blonde pubic hairs, her legs carelessly flopped wide open.
She slept peacefully and heavily, happy in her very first truly physical pleasure, temporarily putting to rest the unhappiness that had brought her to her mother's house.
CHAPTER TWO
Sonja responded sleepily to the insistent ringing of the telephone. Jon's smooth, tanned body sprawled at her side, oblivious to all but his dreams.
"Yeah," her voice breathed into the mouthpiece of the phone. She opened one eye and glanced in the direction of the clock on her bedside table and couldn't believe that anybody would have the audacity to call her at eight o'clock on a Saturday morning.
The familiarity of the voice on the other end jolted her into a complete awakening. "Hello, Sonja. Ted. Charlene with you?"
Sonja bristled at the way her ex-husband always had of making a question sound like a statement. She could picture him at the other end of the line, self-assuredly patting his dark, trim mustache; tall, slender, perfect in his well-pressed slacks.
"No, of course she is not here with me, you idiot. This is not my weekend, remember?" Sonja shot. "And how come you, the 'fit' father, doesn't know where his daughter is?" She was always ready to take a jab at him for dragging her into court nine years before and winning the custody of their small daughter convincing the judge that she was an unfit mother, too dedicated to her career; that he, the respectable college professor, could make a much better home for a child.
Unruffled by her retort, he replied, "We had a little spat yesterday morning before I left for my first class. When I came home for dinner, Charlene had left a message saying she was having dinner at a friend's house. After dinner I had an appointment."
Sonja found herself recoiling more and more as her ex-husband went on recoiling not at the information, but at the uncomfortable feeling his snide, arrogant voice always induced these days. His stilted style of speech had always made Sonja cringe, but now, since the divorce and the subsequent custody difficulties, she discovered he was able to produce a physical nausea with a few short words. He was continuing, "And when I came home very late, I naturally assumed Charlene would be in bed where she belonged. I expected Cora, my housekeeper, to know if she wasn't."
"Why should your housekeeper do your job while you're out on the town?" Sonja snapped. "She probably spent the night at Lisa's."
"Your mind is always a source of amazement to me," Ted replied sarcastically. "Naturally, the first thing I did was call Lisa's house. I was told Charlene didn't even have dinner there. However, it's possible Lisa is lying and does have knowledge of her whereabouts. In any case, before I accuse anyone, I thought it wise to check with you."
"Ted, if anything's happened to my daughter I guarantee I'll rip off your balls with my fingernails."
The unruffled Ted replied easily, "You tried many years ago, my dear, to rip off my balls. But they're still there, plump and active." Then, his tone changing to one of measured seriousness, he added, "If I thought anything had happened to our daughter, I would have the police on the phone right now instead of abusing myself like this. Now, why don't you get up off that well-screwed ass of yours and see if our daughter is actually there? Or is it asking too much for you to get out of bed? I know it's your favorite piece of furniture."
Angry blood rushed to Sonja's head. "All right, you pompous prick, I'll look. But I'll tell you one thing first"
"You always wanted to tell me one thing first. And it's always in that undeniably picturesque but limited language of yours. I will now address you in terms you cannot fail to understand. Get up off your fucking ass and look for Charlene. I'll hang on."
"You do that!" Then, determined to have the last word, she added, "But you can bet I wouldn't have my sixteen-year-old daughter running away from home because I treated her like a twelve-year-old." She threw the phone down and jumped out of bed.
Jon, awake by now, watched her tall, well-endowed body slip into a negligee and bounce out of the bedroom.
The door to Charlene's room was closed, suspicious in itself. She always left it open when Charlene wasn't there open, symbolically inviting the girl's next visit. Could the wind have slammed it shut?
She stopped thoughtfully before opening the door and considered the situation. Could Charlene have walked in last night while she and Jon were making love? If so, had she witnessed the lovemaking? And, that being the case, what might she have seen? A little fucking? A little sucking? Well, so what? Charlene would be a woman soon if she wasn't already. Sex was something she'd better learn the right way instead of fucking up her life with some backwoods jerk the way most girls did.
Sonja firmly believed young girls of her own era had been intimidated, confused, frightened, and then, finally, sexually dried up by all the nightmarish taboos forced upon them by their mothers and society. It was, in fact, something of a miracle that she herself had finally disentangled her own life to the point that she could enjoy it. Thank God, she thought, over and over again, for the fashion industry and the way the breaks had fallen. She had not only been able to make her way without the stuffy bastard now waiting on the phone, but had also discovered the joys her body afforded her. Well, with Charlene, shortcuts would be taken. Sonja would be instrumental in opening the doors to the fashion world, and, as for sex well, why not? Sonja suddenly discovered herself hoping Charlene had witnessed the whole episode with Jon.
Charlene could go places in the fashion world. With her face she could become the top cover girl in the country. There was no end to what she could do, but to do it she'd better know how to use her assets to best advantage. Beauty alone was not enough. She'd better know how to get and keep a man until she was through with him. She'd better know all the tricks. What better lesson could she have than to witness her own mother in action?
Charlene was waiting, wide-eyed, in her bed. She had heard her mother's ranting and then she had heard the padded footsteps approaching her door. Then nothing. She knew her mother was standing just outside. Why didn't she enter? Would she be angry to find her there? No, not that. Her mother was always happy to see her. However, this was the first time she had ever arrived unannounced. Maybe her mother actually was temperamental, volatile, vociferous all those things Dad called her but Charlene couldn't remember Sonja ever becoming really angry with her. With Dad, yes almost every night for the first seven years of her life she had heard screaming and ranting and raving, and Dad's quiet voice in the background saying things like, "Try not to sound like the fishwife you are," or, "Your breeding is showing, my dear." And with each insult from her father, her mother had become more enraged.
But she had never seen her father lose his temper, not, that is, until yesterday morning. She shuddered with the memory. Her mother's flare-ups were pale in comparison.
The door opened. Sonja stood there in a thin black negligee, honey-blonde hair falling loose to the shoulders, utterly lovely even without make-up, Charlene thought.
Sonja let out a sigh of relief and strode to the bed to hug her daughter. "Baby, thank God you're here. I was so worried when your father told me you had disappeared." For some reason not apparent to Sonja Charlene overreacted as her mother embraced her, touching her shoulder.
Nothing went over Sonja. "What's the matter, baby?" she asked, as she lifted the puffed sleeve of Charlene's nightie. The girl's shoulder was bruised with an ugly green and yellow welt.
"Who did this to you?" she demanded.
Charlene lay hard against her pillow, unable to answer. She knew her mother would be quite capable of going immediately to West-wood Village and putting a bullet through her father's head.
Then Charlene saw something she had seen only once before when the judge had decreed the father, not the mother, would have custody of the seven-year-old child. She saw tears well up in her mother's eyes.
Then they were in each other's arms, both crying. It lasted but an instant, and then Sonja withdrew, her tears suddenly replaced by a cold anger. She pulled the covers down and began to professionally examine her daughter's body. She found another bruise on her left thigh and ugly red welts on her usually unblemished young buttocks. "That cocksucker," she muttered under her breath.
"Okay, baby, tell mother about it," she said, turning the girl over again, covering her.
Charlene sucked in her breath and gave her mother an appraising look. Never before had she seen her mother in such a cold, stony anger. Storming and shouting she was used to, but this was altogether new. What was happening? Her father always before cool and controlled and her mother always before the one so quick to express rage seemed to have reversed their roles. Now there was murder in her mother's light green, slightly slanted eyes. Furthermore, when her mother spoke next, it was clear she wanted direct answers. "Charlene, let me have it straight. From the beginning."
Charlene told the story. Her father had been rummaging for aspirin when he came across her birth control pills. She hadn't even considered hiding them he'd never come into her bathroom before, much less examined her medicine chest.
He had stalked into her room and demanded, "Where did you get these pills, Charlene?" He was holding the small bottle. The blood drained from her face. She could do nothing but stare at him, at the half-full container.
He stepped forward and slapped her across the face. "Answer me, Goddamnit!" He had never before slapped her.
She was dumbfounded, stunned. And then she began crying.
"Well?" he repeated, still enraged.
"You slapped me!" Charlene accused.
"Of course I did, you slut. Now answer me!"
It was all Charlene could do to gather her voice. When she did speak, it came out as a defensive scream. "A friend gave them to me."
Then, gathering steam, somehow realizing she was better off on the offensive, she asked a question of her own. "What right do you have snooping around in my medicine chest? I'm just keeping them for a friend."
"You're lying, you little bitch." He had never, never used such invective before. The tears poured out faster than ever.
"What friend?" he demanded.
She didn't answer.
"A name, please."
Again silence.
He hit her on the arm. She slumped to the bed.
"All right. The name of the boy you're screwing! Right now!" He hit her again, this time with his doubled fist against her thigh.
By this time, Charlene wasn't even conscious of the fact that her father was using such vile language. She responded, as if by reflex, "Leave me alone. I'm not doing anything. I'm not doing anything bad!"
"Is it that Goddamned long-haired Beldon kid?"
"His hair isn't that long!" she blurted. "So, it is him!"
Then unceremoniously, he pulled her over his knee as if she were an eight-year-old. He spanked and spanked with a rigid, furious hand, until she screamed for mercy. Then, finally, he threw her down on the bed with explicit threats of what he would do if she fooled around any more. The episode ended as he stalked out of the house, still enraged.
Sonja had remained quiet until Charlene finished her story. Then she asked, "When you ran away, Charlene, was it a matter of being impetuous or was it thought out:planned? I mean, are you here permanently?"
"I'll never go back, Mother," Charlene answered, breaking into tears again. "I'm afraid of him of what he'll do to me if he gets mad again. I've never seen him like that. I don't know him any more."
"All right, baby," Sonja soothed. She patted the girl's golden hair down and away from her tear-stained face. "Everything will be all right."
"I knew what I was doing, Mother. I couldn't pack a bag because Cora would have seen me leave with it. But I really did come to stay."
"All right, darling. Now, tell me, what'd you do all day? Why didn't you call me immediately?"
"I did, Mother. You were working on a commercial. I just didn't leave a message with your service."
Damn! Sonja thought. What luck! I wasn't there when my daughter needed me. For a moment Sonja felt as if the fates were conspiring against her, but then she dismissed the thought.
"What did you do then, honey?"
"After I managed to pull myself together, I called Tom and we took a drive to the beach and talked. I had to have somebody to talk to, Mom... "
"Of course you did."
Charlene continued, "It wasn't just the scene today, Mom. I mean, Dad never hit me before, but he's always been so strict it's always been an event in my life to get out of the house. Whenever I could. Any way I could."
"He's a hypocritical monster. Besides, a girl needs her mother when she goes through puberty and adolescence. That judge should have had his balls fed into a meat-grinder."
Charlene couldn't help smiling. Her mother's descriptions were so colorful, her language so honest. Whatever she was, she was not a hypocrite.
Sonja's mind was now clicking at full speed. Not only did it hurt her to see her daughter abused especially by that prick it enraged her to think Charlene might have been marred professionally. Bruises on the arms or legs would prevent Charlene from modeling bathing suits, welts on her fresh young buttocks would keep her from a nude centerfold. Goddamn him, she thought, his cock should be threaded on an icepick. But at least one good thing would come out of all this. She would get her daughter back. Maybe it wouldn't be legal custody, but it didn't matter as long as they were reunited. A quick thought flashed in her mind.
"Stay where you are, baby. I'll be right back." Sonja sailed out the door.
When she returned, she led Jon with one hand and carried a Polaroid camera in the other.
Charlene, despite herself, felt a little flutter in her tummy at the sight of Jon so rugged-looking, dark hair still rumpled from sleep, just a towel wrapped around his manly waist.
Sonja whipped the covers off Charlene and began to pull her nightie up over her head.
"Mother! What're you doing?" Charlene clutched the fabric to her chest.
"Do you want to go back to your father?"
"No!" Charlene wailed protestingly.
"Well, we're going to get some photographs of the damage and in living color. Now be a good girl and let's get this off."
Charlene reluctantly allowed her mother to lift her gown, then lay there, covering her breasts. She gave a sidelong glance in Jon's direction. He had a devilish grin on his face.
"You'd better get over this shyness if you're going to become a model, sweetie."
Charlene's blue eyes opened wide. "But am I, Mother? Dad wants me to be a schoolteacher."
Sonja snorted.
"Let's get one of the arm like this," Jon said, pulling Charlene's hands away from her young firm breasts and plumping the pillow behind her.
"Wait a minute," Sonja said. She fanned Charlene's long golden hair over the pillow and tilted her face at a three-quarter angle. Her upthrust breasts peaked out from beyond the bruised arm. "Perfect. Get a real close-up of the bruise."
Jon crouched down beside the bed in order to get just the upper portion of Charlene's body. And then, although she wasn't really looking, Charlene caught sight of the head of his large penis as the towel parted. A tremor rippled through her. The camera clicked.
After sixty seconds he pulled off the developing strip.
"My, God, she's photogenic," Sonja said as she examined the photograph.
"Let me see," Charlene said, forgetting her exposed breasts, jumping out of bed. When she saw the picture, she let out a little "Oh," obviously pleased with her likeness.
"Okay, baby, off with the panties," Sonja said, leaning forward and giving a quick yank, leaving Charlene with nothing on except an ankle-hugging film of rayon.
"Mother! Must I?"
"You betcha. We're going to get some great shots of those bruises and welts before they have a chance to fade. On the bed with you." She gave Charlene a gentle push and whisked the panties all the way off. At this point, Jon entered the activity.
"Let's have her like this," he said, arranging Charlene languorously across the bed on her back, with nothing protecting her proud young pubis from his eyes pulling the bruised leg up, adding a soft caress to her inner thigh.
A thrill shot through Charlene like an arrow. She sucked in her breath and hoped he wouldn't notice the effect he had just had on her.
The camera clicked again. They waited for sixty more seconds to tick off.
"I just remembered," Sonja announced, heading for the door, "I left your fucking father hanging on the line. I'd better get back to him and let him know what I think of all this. Go ahead with the next one, will you, Jon?"
Charlene looked both pathetic and appealing her long slender legs draped loosely, the large bruise brilliant against her peach-colored flesh.
"Okay, baby," he said, turning her over onto her stomach, letting his hand brush by her soft blonde pubic hairs as he lay her across a pillow. Charlene thought she would die from inner excitement.
In her bedroom, Sonja was hissing into the phone. "You motherfucker, how dare you beat that child?"
"You're overdramatizing, as usual," Ted replied, his voice calm. "Charlene got a well-deserved spanking, that's all."
"Bullshit! Who are you to sit up there on your turd-covered throne and pass judgment?"
"I am her father. And don't forget it!" His voice was firm, confident. But somewhere beneath this cocksure exterior, Sonja could detect an uncertain wavering.
She smiled. She was getting to him. She tapped a cigarette out of the pack on her bedside table. "I suppose you'd like your daughter to be too dumb to take birth control pills and get knocked up then be stuck with an asshole like you for the rest of her life." She calmly lit her cigarette.
"I expect my daughter to behave like a lady. I don't want her to grow up in your whorish footsteps." His voice was now considerably louder than usual, confirming her confidence. Sonja smiled to herself as she waited. She knew what would come next.
"Oh! Wait a minute. Now I get it. You supplied her with those pills."
"You're getting smart in your old age. I did indeed give her the pills. And I did it on her doctor's advice. He could see, even if you couldn't, that she's growing up."
"You filthy bitch!" he rasped. Then he regained his control. "I'm not going to argue with you. Get Charlene ready. I'll pick her up in an hour."
"Good. That'll give me time to have the police here, waiting." Sonja felt enthralled as she prepared to play her last trump card.
"Police! What do you mean?"
"Just exactly that."
"Just exactly what?"
"Listen, you prick, and listen good. I have beautiful color shots of that poor battered child. I also have a witness, and I would just love to have the police here, as witnesses, too put it in their report, take you in. Nothing could give me greater pleasure. So please hurry over."
There was a long silence. "It wouldn't stick," he finally replied.
"Wanna bet? I've got evidence. I even have enough contacts to get it in the papers. I can see the headlines now. College Professor Booked for Child Abuse. I'm sure the dean would love to keep you on after that."
There was a momentary silence. Then, in a low, deliberate voice, he asked, "What do you want?"
Sonja took the last drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out. What a satisfaction! she thought. She had won.
"I want my daughter here with me. Furthermore, this is where she wants to be. If you must be dragged through mud before you'll give her up, then I'll do that, too. She'll never go back with you even if I have to take her to juvenile court and have the judge appoint a temporary guardian. But you'll be ruined in the process."
"Be reasonable, Sonja." His voice was smoother now silky, oily, conniving. "You know very well this is the first time I've hit her. I am certainly not a child beater because of one spanking"
"Spanking?!" Sonja cut in. "That was a beating! It was brutal!" A pause. Then, "It won't happen again."
"You're fucking right it won't happen again. Because she won't be with you again!"
"Now, just a minute. What about her future? She was going to go to college this fall and get a teaching degree."
"Big deal! Why in the hell should that beautiful kid become a dried-up schoolmarm when she can make ten times more money becoming a model maybe an actress."
"Look, she's got brains. Why do you want her to follow in your worn-out footsteps?"
"I haven't done badly. And Charlene will do even better. She won't have to struggle to learn the ropes the way I did because she'll have me to give her a head start. She'll be seventeen in November. That gives her only one year and four months until she'll be legally of age. I suggest that if you don't want to lose her completely you back off and send me a notarized statement that she can remain with me until she's eighteen."
"Why don't you stop being a vengeful, selfish bitch, and do what's best for the child?" he snapped, making his last stand.
"I am doing what's best for the child," Sonja snapped back. She just couldn't remain cool for very long when speaking to this man. "And you don't kid me for one fucking second. I know what your problem is. You couldn't stand the idea of her having a little sex with that harmless boy because you want to fuck her yourself!"
"What kind of a sick remark is that?" Ted shouted into the phone. He was beaten, his control completely gone.
"When you pulled her little lacy panties down to spank her, you probably came in your own!"
"You miserable cunt!"
His phone went dead with a slam. Sonja, calmer now than she could ever remember, put her own instrument softly into its cradle.
She smiled. Maybe she hadn't ripped Ted's balls off, but she had sure as hell given them a mighty painful twist.
"Okay. That's enough, baby," Jon said, giving Charlene a gentle caress on her red rump. "Boy, your old man sure gave it to ya." Impulsively he lowered his lips to one of the red welts and let a gentle kiss linger there. "If I was your old man, I'd only shower you with kisses. You're really a sweet kid."
He felt her tremble in his arms and turned her gently on her back. He kissed her on the forehead, the eyelids, the cheeks, then fully on her soft, pliable mouth. She felt his tongue touch hers and found herself responding as she never had with Tom. She sucked on his tongue as she had seen her mother do the night before on this very person's cock, then she put her own tongue into his mouth exploring timidly at first, and then, as the act became more natural, searchingly. His hands drifted to her full young breasts, then one hand moved surely down the even terrain of her flat stomach to the silken pubic hairs, and then farther still to the inside of her satiny thighs.
Charlene moaned with anticipation and parted her legs instinctively. The hand, as she had hoped it would, found its way into the open wet folds. The fingers slid over her creamy little pearl, and then his middle finger found its way into her warm depths. Charlene held her arms tightly around Jon's neck in complete acceptance.
Slowly he released his mouth from hers and moved it down her chin, then her neck, to one pink-nippled areola where he sucked and nibbled gently, on down with his tongue to her tummy, licking, nibbling, brushing her fair flesh with his lips, over the sweet furry mound and on into the warmth of her responsive thighs.
She was undulating her slim, curved hips sensuously when, at last, his warm mouth found her succulent lower lips. At first, when she realized that his mouth and lips were really licking at her vagina her open, pulled-apart vagina she felt an impulse to jerk away, not because she was shocked or because it was new, but simply because she had been with Tom the night before and she could remember his young thunder bursts of semen shooting into her with the volume and power of a geyser. Three separate times one after another! My God, she thought, I must be full of it! But just then Jon hit a particularly sensitive spot and she managed to forget the whole thing.
Again fully relaxed, she sighed with pleasure as he sucked and licked and flicked his tongue against the taut little jewel. It felt like velvet against her. She moaned and whimpered with delight she was his to do with as he pleased. A gush of heat filled her whole being on the peak of ecstasy and she began to involuntarily shiver, then tremble, then shake in great torrents of release.
So this was what it was really all about, she thought vaguely. And then her mind went blank again as he unrelentingly sucked and lapped at her sweetness. She rolled on and on, mindless now, into the land of the indescribable multiple orgasm.
It was during this last release from glorious agony that Sonja with good news on the tip of her tongue returned to Charlene's room. She stopped in her tracks as she saw her daughter and lover. Her first reaction was one of combined shock and jealousy; but it didn't last long. Strangely, she found herself viewing the scene as if Charlene were only an extension of her own secret being.
She regained what composure she had lost. Her mind quickly computed: It'll be good for Charlene to learn the finesse of lovemaking. It'll help her to conduct herself with men who'll be important to her future. Just so long as she doesn't get hung up with Jon. And just so long as Jon has enough left for me.
As Sonja went discreetly to her room to lay out delicate plans for her daughter's career, Sonja's lover went about not so discreetly the very delicate business of laying her daughter.
Sid Morris appraised Charlene approvingly. Sonja's little girl was a lovely little piece all right, as well as a perfect size ten for his sportswear line. He remembered when Sonja had begun her own modeling career with Hollywood Sunwear eighteen years ago. His business was new then and Sonja was a great asset. Many was the time she'd go out with a big buyer and help swing the sale. Now, at the very least, he felt he would have owed it to Sonja to hire her little girl even if she hadn't been a knockout. But this was really a stroke of luck. The girl had nicely rounded ski-slope breasts, just the right size for a bikini. Most these models if thin enough through the middle and hips were usually too flat-chested. And her little ass curved out nicelyjust right to make a bikini look good, but not enough to make it vulgar. That was the trouble; girls either had nothing in a bathing suit or else they looked like they were pouring out of it. But no matter how the ultimate customers actually looked, if the buyers saw the suits on somebody like Charlene they bought them by the warehouseful. You had to understand psychology in this business if you planned to last. For every manufacturer that made it, five went broke.
Charlene was walking and pivoting for Mr. M. as he was called just exactly the way Sonja had taught her. Actually, Charlene had been reluctant to try out for Mr. Morris cold, and had asked her mother if she might not take a lesson or two at a modeling school.
"Hell, no!" Sonja had replied. "That's a lot of shit. Especially when you've got a mother like me. Those schools are for kids who have slobs for mothers... or for overweight girls... or girls who don't stand up straight or walk well... or don't know how to do their hair or make-up. Your hair is natural and your make-up is perfect. And you're doubly fortunate to have inherited my complexion on top of which you've the most magnificent coloring one could have for sportswear. Nothing's worse than having a girl to model play clothes who looks like she's just been dunked in a pot of white flour. She should look like she goes to the beach and plays tennis and rides a bike. And that's just what you do."
"But what about the actual modeling, Mom?"
"You have the carriage of a princess, and no modeling school in the world can give you that. You're born with it. And if I can't teach you the actual turning and pivoting and how to show the clothes to best advantage, then I should turn in my mannequin's badge. Remember, I taught at Lenore Lee Worth's School of Modeling when I was pregnant with you."
Charlene came out of her reverie when Mr. M. patted her on the fanny. "Okay, babe, you've got the job. We bring out a line six times a year, and I can use you about a month each time to show and then be fitted for the next line. That'll take care of half your year's income."
Then, pausing in his enthusiastic spiel, realizing, it seemed, the need for something a bit more personal, he went on, "You know, Charlene, you sure do look a lot like your mother did when she was your age... and, I hope you understand, that is really quite a compliment."
He led her by the arm back to the dressing room where the other model was writing out tags for a future line. She wore a blue smock, carelessly open, and didn't seem overly concerned about modesty. Panties and bare breasts were plainly visible.
"Joyce," Sid Morris said, introducing the girls with a gesture of the hand, "this is Charlene. She'll wear all the bikinis and low-cut lounge-wear. Show her where to put her things and then take her to Ruth for measurements." Turning to Charlene, he continued, "Can you start tomorrow, honey? I hope so, because you're just in time to get some of the holiday line cut on you."
"Sure, Mr. Morris. Whenever you say." She still felt a little overwhelmed by all this. She had shown up at her mother's the previous Friday and it was just Monday now. A miracle of sorts a weekend of icepacks, of sunning by the pool, a little make-up and presto: no bruises.
"Okay, babe. Nine to five, an hour for lunch, and a hundred and fifty a week. Give your Mom my love and tell her to drop by sometime."
"She would have brought me today, but she had to have a fitting for the March Company fashion show.
CHAPTER THREE
You know the Paris imports."
After he left, Joyce said, "Come on, big boobs. I'll show you the joint."
"Why do you say big boobs?" Charlene asked, very surprised. She had nice, well-rounded, quite adequate breasts which had been the envy of her girl friends, but they certainly weren't big.
"Because Mr. M. wants you to model all the things that need big boobs. You know, swim-wear, low-cut things. Come on." Joyce stood up and led Charlene to a closet at the other end of the dressing room. "This is where you'll put your own clothes." Joyce opened the closet and Charlene could see a few items of clothing, presumably Joyce's.
"And what're these things?" Charlene asked, indicating a long rack in front of the closet that was filled with modish shorts, blouses, slacks, several bikinis, and even a few long skirts and dresses.
"That's the line we're showing right now," Joyce explained. "Don't forget to hang up each piece carefully after showing, even if you have to rush into the next item. Otherwise, Judith will have a fit."
"Who's Judith?"
"She's Mr. M.'s right hand sort of a gal Friday. Didn't you see her flitting around while you were showing for Mr. M.?"
"Oh, yes," Charlene answered, recalling the birdlike creature who had appeared briefly while she was walking and turning for Mr. Morris.
"Don't let her fragility fool you," Joyce said. "She's as tough as leather, and Mr. M. doesn't make a move without her."
Then, turning in another direction, Joyce went on, "Come on, kiddo, I have to take you to the fitting room so Ruth can get your measurements. Take that off," she said, indicating the bathing suit. "Just leave on your underpants."
Charlene did as she was told, but asked, "Is there a smock for me?"
"No, but you'll have one tomorrow. Come on."
"Well, I'd better put my dress back on, then. I can't walk out of here in these." Charlene looked downward, indicating her blue-white, see-through mesh panties.
"Sure you can. The fitting room's just around the corner. Nobody pays any attention around here."
"But suppose a buyer... " Charlene didn't have a chance to complete the sentence, for Joyce wearily took her by the hand and led her, bare boobs and all, out of the dressing room, down a short corridor, and into a large room which was teeming with activity. There were, first of all, quite a few oversized wooden cutting tables, rows of sewing-machine tables, attended by little ladies speeding away on them; there were ironing boards, and irons, half-clad mannequin forms, and material piled all over the place.
This was where it all happened, Charlene decided. With all these people busily fitting, cutting, sewing, pressing, a piece of fabric could become a lovely creation. And from bolts of material, the creation was multiplied into a blossoming of fashion.
Ruth, the fitter, appeared, wearing a tape measure for a necklace. "This is Charlene, Ruth," Joyce introduced. "Our new model."
The fitter, a slip of a woman, smiled with uneven teeth and said, "Charlene, is it? Good. Well, you should do fine here, dear. You've a perfect body. It will be a pleasure to work with you."
"Oh, thank you," Charlene answered. She knew instinctively she would get on with Ruth.
Charlene spent a little more time getting acquainted, getting the feel of the place, poking her nose into all the corners, feeling out some of the people, sensing she must try to become "one of the family." She tried, for example, to understand the momentary discomfiture she noticed on Joyce's face when Ruth complimented Charlene's figure. She wondered if perhaps Joyce was one of those girls who had great difficulty maintaining their weight and, if so, was she in for some competitive, professional jealousies? She hoped not, because she had instinctively liked Joyce just as she had Ruth even though she did detect a certain indifference in the other model. At this point of the game, Charlene was quite ready to be friends with everyone. And petty jealousies she could certainly do without.
Finally she felt it was time to leave. Jon would be waiting downstairs in the coffee shop, or if all "coffeed" out in the car. As she was going out the door, she heard Mr. M. ask Joyce to start showing the line. A big buyer from Kansas had just arrived. Tomorrow, she thought, I will be a part of this whole, exciting business.
Charlene walked out of the building on Los Angeles Street into the smog-filled morning and blinked into the hazy sun. She wondered if she would be able to survive the air day after day, working in this part of town. At least in Westwood Village she could look up and see blue.
Jon was waiting in the open convertible. He looked ruggedly handsome, face tanned and dark hair offsetting the whole perfectly.
"Hi, kid," he grinned. "Don't tell me. I know you got the job by your smile."
"I sure did," Charlene said, jumping in. "And not just because of my mother, either. Those clothes fit like they'd been made for me."
Jon gunned the motor and sped away, taking a peculiar route.
"Hey, aren't you going to take the freeway home?" She looked at him quizzically.
"Nah, what's the hurry? Sonja won't be home this early. We have a couple of hours." He looked at her, his sexy face making all sorts of mysterious promises. Without further preliminaries, he reached over and put his hand high on her thigh. "Hey, you've got pants on!"
"Of course, did you think I'd go job-hunting bare-assed, as my mother would put it?"
"Well, you're not job-hunting now, baby. Come on, take them off. Don't you want to feel my hand on that hot, chubby dripping cunt?"
Charlene felt a now-familiar thrill ripple through her as she cooperatively removed her panties. Involuntarily she spread her legs wide open in the topless convertible as Jon drove unevenly up toward Sunset Boulevard.
"God, what a sweet, wet pussy you have, baby. He took his hand away and licked his fingers. "Oh, don't take your hand away like that," Charlene moaned.
"I'm not stopping, baby," he said as he thrust his hand back under her skirt. His fingers found her clitoris, and then also explored deep within her oily emptiness.
She was leaning back against the leather seat, eyes closed, body undulating sensuously, when a truck pulled up alongside them at a stop signal.
"Harder, deeper!" Charlene implored.
"Easy, girl," Jon warned. "We've got cars all around us. And a truck right next to us on your side." He moved to extract his hand again.
"No, no!" Charlene exhorted. "I don't care, I don't care at all. Just don't stop." Jon thought a moment, and then shrugged his shoulders.
Horns honked and short-tempered people cursed as Charlene languorously completed a beautiful orgasm in full view of the truck-driver.
As the light turned green a second time, traffic proceeded at a very slow and quiet pace, disturbed only by the grinding of gears from a missed shift in the huge Diesel.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sid Morris sat at his large oak desk behind the closed door of his private office. He didn't seem able to keep his mind on his work this morning. It was one of those rare summer days when the skies over downtown Los Angeles were clear and beautiful. It gave him a feeling of spring fever, of nostalgia.
He ran his hands through his thick hair, still black except for striking threads of gray at the temples. He patted his stomach. Not bad, he thought, for fifty-six. Just a small paunch. And, after all, his six-foot-two frame could stand it.
He looked around his office with an appraising eye. He'd done well. Very well. It hadn't taken him long to learn. No, sir, not Sid Morris. Once, just once, he had been a loser, but now he was long recouped from that. Trouble, back then, was that he had been ahead of the times. He'd taken that fancy trip to Paris and foolishly paid a fortune for a few models from the top Paris couturiers. He then had them copied, cut, and made up for the American fall line. Shouldn't have tried such a big undertaking on a shoe string better to have tucked his designer under his arm and gotten into the Paris salons, posing as wealthy Texans, and stolen the designs. Not to the last detail, of course that would have been dangerous but just close enough copying so they'd resemble the originals. A little unethical, perhaps, but at least he wouldn't have lost his shirt.
Oh, well, it had all turned out for the best. Adelle was a good wife and mother and they had a good marriage. Marrying her had made it easier for him to live his own life. She was a placid woman and unaware of or, perhaps, indifferent to the numerous girl friends he'd had throughout the years. Besides, it had been her old man's money that had given him a second start. Wasn't that old curmudgeon surprised the day Sid returned his loan which he never expected to see again and with interest? All her father had wanted was to make his plain, but nice, daughter happy with a good husband. Sid had never even pretended to be in love with Adelle not even at the outset but he had been determined to have the best Goddamn line of casual clothes in the country, and to do it he had had to find a new grubstake somewhere, and by God he had done just that. And now things were looking up really up. Oh, he had to admit there was a thorn in the cloth Leisure Line, his big competitor. He and they ran neck and neck, but, somehow, he'd soon shove them down into a firm second place. Make book on it!
A timid tap at his office door brought Sid fully awake from his daydreaming.
"Come in."
Joyce appeared at the open door and quickly closed it behind her, snapping the lock as she did so. "Mr. M.," she said in a small voice, "do you have a few minutes?"
Sid glanced up sharply from the papers he was now scanning. Wouldn't do to have the help catch him day-dreaming, he thought.
"I always have a few minutes for you, Joyce," he said, returning his eyes to his papers.
She approached the desk slowly, letting her smock fall open as she did. But the view of her well-rounded braless body in the flesh-colored panties was lost on Sid. He didn't raise his eyes again. "Sit down, sit down," he gestured with his hand.
But Joyce didn't sit down. She pressed her body against his desk and leaned forward over it, exposing her small but well-proportioned breasts to best advantage.
"Mr. M., none of the new line has been fitted on me yet." There was a waver in her voice. "How come?"
"I told them to leave your fittings for last, Joyce." Sid said, not unkindly. "To give you time to get that extra inch off your hips."
"Oh, Mr. M., they can go ahead and fit me anyway because it'll be off by the time the samples are ready. I swear." She added this last with passion.
"Well, you know, our headstrong designer likes to see the material fall the way she indicates in the drawings. So I thought I'd just leave your samples for last."
Joyce gave up her enticing pose and moved around the desk where she slid to the floor at Sid's feet. "Oh, Mr. M., you wouldn't give Charlene the permanent job just because I've added one inch, would you?" She slid her hand affectionately up his pants leg.
Sid knew that Joyce, at only eighteen, had a large load to carry. She was fatherless, almost motherless, since the woman was so sickly, and had two young brothers to help support. Of course, Joyce could always get another job with another manufacturer who cut his samples larger, but it might not be steady. And she'd never get as large a salary. He'd found many years ago that it was just plain good business to pay five or ten dollars over the industry average. It was little enough extra compared to what one got for it: prettier girls who would work harder. Plus, perhaps, a few of their favors. Just as he thought this, Joyce moved her hand from his pants leg to his zipper.
"You needn't concern yourself about your job, Joyce," he answered.
Her cool hand reached into his undershorts and brought out his large, but limp, penis. He patted her affectionately on the head. "You're a nice, loyal girl. And a good model, too," But, he thought to himself, you have to keep the best of 'em in line, or they'll take advantage, eat candy bars all day instead of cocks.
He felt her warm lips encase his cock. He leaned back in his swivel chair and closed his eyes. Guess he'd had too many pretty girls, he thought. Getting jaded. He felt her mouth pump up and down on him, trying desperately to make him hard. Seemed as if it just didn't mean anything any more having Joyce go down on him. Now, if this were Charlene! But he hadn't gotten the message across to the new girl during her first week of employment. He supposed he'd have to make it clear pretty soon, but in the meantime, this was it. He could feel his cock getting bigger and harder just thinking about Charlene, irrespective of who was doing the actual work.
Joyce licked and sucked industriously while Sid, with eyes closed, floated on in his fantasy, imagining it was Charlene who was attending him.
It worked. He poured, it seemed to him, a pint of semen intoCharlene's?sexy mouth.
Joyce sucked and swallowed and licked him dry. Then, as she tucked it back into his pants, he caressed her cheek and said, "You're a good girl, Joyce." It was the first time he had looked directly at her since she had begun.
She looked up gratefully. "Thank you, Mr. M."
"Go back to work now. And don't worry. Just stick to your high protein diet and everything'll be fine."
"Yes, Mr. M." Joyce stood up and tied her robe. Sid returned to his papers.
Charlene put on the elegant wine-colored pant-suit. God, it was gorgeous, she thought. Retailed for sixty dollars, but she could buy everything for half price. Of course, if she waited until they didn't need it any longer she could probably talk Mr. M. into selling the sample for a lot less. But what the hell, she was earning good money, why not have it now? Or maybe in a couple of weeks, when it could be cut and sewn with another order.
"Hey, Charlene, you better get your fanny out there. Mr. Hershfield doesn't like to be kept waiting," Joyce said as she entered the dressing room, unbuttoning the creation she had been showing. "Okay."
Charlene pranced through the curtains into the showroom. Mr. M. was sitting next to a "big" buyer, a certain Mr. Hershfield. Charlene knew he was a big buyer, otherwise Mr. M. would have put him in the hands of one of the regular salesmen.
"Here's a beautiful number for you, Hershey," Sid offered, almost fawning.
"I'll say she is," Hershfield answered, giving Charlene an all-encompassing once-over. Then, as if not seeing the apparel at all, but only the girl in it, and also seemingly oblivious to the onlookers, Hershfield spoke directly to Charlene. "It's kinda lonely being away from home, honey," he stated, in a Midwestern drawl. "How about having dinner with me tonight?"
Charlene replied simply, "I'm sorry, Mr. Hershfield. I can't."
Sid Morris's face revealed nothing.
"Why the hell can't ya?" Hershfield snapped. He was obviously used to having his way.
All the while Charlene had been turning and walking to show how the pantsuit moved with the body. "That's all right, Charlene, go put on the next number," Sid cut in. He patted Hershfield's arm as Charlene walked out and then said in a low voice, "Calm down, Hershey. I'll take care of it."
"Well, I don't want her if she's going to be snotty."
"She isn't going to be snotty. She's going to be charming. You're going to have a wonderful time. Now, that number she was wearing is going to be a real winner comes in four shades wine, forest green, rust, and camel. How many do you think you can use?"
"No idea right now. I'll let you know tomorrow." Hershfield was wearing a dour expression as he said this last.
After the girls had shown the complete line, Charlene was summoned to the office. The message had been delivered by Sid Morris's secretary, and Joyce had overheard. This surprised her, since Mr. M. had already been serviced once that day. And, lately, once had been his limit.
"Sit down, Charlene," Mr. M. said. His voice was gentle, but conveyed a message of no-nonsense seriousness. Charlene sat.
"Do you like your job here, my dear?"
Charlene was taken aback. What kind of a question was this? "Oh, yes, Mr. M. I love working with clothes, and yours are exceptional. And I'm learning a lot it's very interesting. Yes, I love working here."
"Do you know who that buyer was?"
"Yes. Mr. Hershfield."
Sid pulled a bottle of Scotch out of his lower left drawer. "It's almost five. You won't have to work any more today, Charlene. Join me in a drink." He produced two small glasses. "Oh! No, thank you, Mr. Morris. I don't drink."
"Only smoke pot, huh?" he muttered privately. "You know, Charlene," he wagged his finger at her, "you say 'no' too much. There's another word you're going to have to learn to say that suits pretty girls much better. It's 'yes.' Let me hear you say 'yes,' Charlene."
Charlene hadn't seen him like this before. He was as kind and gentle as ever, but there was a steely quality behind his words. As if hypnotized, she said, "Yes, Mr. M."
He poured the drinks and handed her one. "Just swirl it around in your mouth a little first. Drink it slowly."
Charlene no longer considered being obstinate. She complied, and felt the warmth of the liquor suffuse her throat all the way to her stomach. She coughed slightly, burning.
"A girl who wears such expensive clothes and drives such an expensive car must learn to appreciate Scotch. Of course, when you go to dinner with Mr. Hershfield tonight you don't have to drink Scotch. You can drink bourbon or gin or vodka, but you must drink something. Men don't like to drink alone when they're with a beautiful young lady."
Charlene's head was swimming. Expensive clothes, expensive car, dinner with Mr. Hershfield. What was happening? "But, Mr. M., I'm not going to dinner with Mr. Hershfield."
"Don't be silly, my dear. Of course you are. When I asked if you knew who that buyer was, I didn't mean just his name. I meant who, really who like in Who's Who. Well, obviously you don't, so I'll spell it out. Mr. Hershfield represents Martin and Martin, who have stores all over the country. Mr. Hershfield buys for all those beautiful stores. He doesn't buy a piece here and a piece there. He buys by the thousand!"
"Oh," Charlene interjected, a flickering of understanding crossing her mind.
"Yes, and Mr. Hershfield got his feelings hurt when you turned him down, Charlene. We don't insult our buyers. That's a no-no. Am I making myself clear?"
"But Mr. M.," Charlene gulped and hoped her eyes weren't all teary, "after working hours, isn't my time my own?"
"Charlene, if you want to make it in the fashion industry, you eat, sleep, and breathe it around the clock. Especially sleep," he added pointedly. "That goes for any kind of modeling you do. I know you have that interview for a hair commercial lined up. Maybe the agency man who represents the shampoo will want you to go out with him. Well, are you going to accept, or maybe let some other girl go out with him and get the job instead of you?" He paused after this pitch to let it sink in fully.
"Well," Charlene said, looking down into her lap. "I don't know. Of course, a commercial pays a lot of money, and then the residuals can really be fantastic."
Sid let out a sigh of relief. At last he was getting through. He arose from his swivel chair and walked around the desk to where she sat. "Let's bring your chair around here, my dear," he said, helping her up while he moved her chair next to his. "Now. That's better." He patted her knee and slipped his hand up her thigh, opening her smock a bit as he did.
"Now," he continued. "A big order from Martin and Martin would give you a nice bonus at Christmas time. And when I like a girl she gets her clothes at cost, not wholesale. Do you know what that means?" And then, before Charlene had a chance to answer, he continued, "It means that I don't make a damn thing. I charge you what it costs to make the garment. In fact, sometimes I give things away that were cancelled and couldn't be placed. I give them to my pretty little employees." He put one large hand on the back of her head, pulled her forward and kissed her on the cheek. "But that isn't all. When Mr. Hershfield likes a girl he is very generous. And that car of yours probably has big payments."
"Just for going out with him, Mr. M.? Mr. Hershfield is generous to a girl for just going out with him?"
"Your mother wasn't much older than you are when she started her career with me, Charlene. She was smart. That's why she lasted. Looks aren't enough. There's more looks than brains floating around, but when you get the combination you got a winner. You are a winner, aren't you, Charlene?"
"Well, I hope so, Mr. Morris. But does that mean I have to... " She faltered. "... you know."
"It doesn't hurt, Charlene. In fact, I'd say it helps. It helps a lot. But it's more serious than that, Charlene. If you don't go to dinner with Mr. Hershfield and act very, very nice to him and it hurts me to say this to you because you're Sonja's baby, but I can't beat about the bush any longer I'm going to have to let you go and then have you blacklisted by the rest of the industry in order to save the Hershfield account. There's no other way he could save face. I just can't afford to have 'no' girls working for me."
Now the tears fell freely from Charlene's large blue eyes.
"Oh, baby," he said, patting her on the cheek. "Don't cry. You'll make your eyes all red for tonight." He let his hand slip down into the smock and gently squeezed her breast. Then he kissed her full on the lips.
Charlene left Sid Morris's office shaken. It was five-twenty and everyone had left the plant. Oddly, she found herself thinking in exactly the direction Sid Morris had hoped she might. That new car was, indeed, an albatross around her neck, and it did represent a big nut to crack. Paying off a thirty-five-hundred-dollar car was no joke.
But Sonja had refused to let her purchase a second-hand transportation car.
"Are you kidding," her mother had said. "You've got to look successful, baby. Money goes to money. You can't go around looking like broken-down humble pie looking for an extra crumb. You have to drive up in a flashy sports car and you get out wearing expensive clothes. That's where it's at. If you look like you don't need a job, you get it. You gotta be class."
Charlene dressed quickly. She had to hurry home. She'd have to bathe, apply her make-up again, and don her most expensive long dress. And fast. She had to be back at the Ambassador for her eight-thirty dinner date with one of the least lovable men she'd ever met:Mr. Hershfield. If I must play the game, she thought, then I suppose I must. And well.
Charlene, clad only in panties, stood before her dressing-table mirror, admiring her handiwork. Foundation creams, eye shadows and liners, eyebrow pencils, mascaras, rouges, lipsticks, and powder were strewn about the table.
Just as Charlene was applying a bright red lipstick, Sonja walked in, glass in hand. She gasped and almost spilled her drink when she caught Charlene's reflection in the mirror. "Good Lord! Are you going to a masquerade?"
"Mother!" Charlene replied, a hurt tone in her voice, "I'm going out with Mr. Hershfield and Mr. M. wants me to look my best."
"In that case, get out the cold cream. Let's get that goop off your face."
"Mother, I'm not wearing sports clothes tonight! I'll have on my best long dress and I think I should wear the make-up to go with it. I'm not a school kid any longer." Anger replaced her distress. Sonja strode over to Charlene, put her drink on the dressing-table, and took her hands in her own. "Look, baby, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but you need a lesson in make-up. I don't expect you to let your face go bare-assed when you're dolled up for an evening on the town, but too much is too much. In the first place, you're a blonde you can't wear as much make-up as a brunette. In the second place, which is really the first place, you have youth. Never again in your life will you be able to take advantage of your natural beauty. Even plain girls seem pretty because they're young and fresh. Whatever you do with your make-up, you mustn't kill that glowing freshness."
She released Charlene and reached for the cleansing cream. "Here, you're going to start over." She handed Charlene a Kleenex from the little paper mache-covered box. Charlene's anger subsided as she watched her mother handle the box one of the treasured presents she had brought from Mexico a year earlier. She looked up to her mother's face and saw that Sonja's best interests were now being directed toward Charlene's own. Sonja really was in her corner. She sighed and began to cream her face.
"Here, put some astringent on to get all the cleansing cream off before you begin again." Sonja handed Charlene a dampened cotton pad.
"All right," she went on, "what do we have here?" She began to appraise the foundations. "Here, this color matches your skin best. Now put it on sparingly in dots, then rub it into your face with both hands. You really don't need anything on your skin, but I know you want to have a really finished look tonight. Okay, now apply the eye shadow faintly, so that it complements your eyes, instead of making them garish. Understatement is what we want, dear."
Charlene followed her mother's instructions. After the eye shadow she was told to put her brown eye liner on subtly, rather than as if she were going to a costume party as Cleopatra. Then the powder was patted on gently. Next the brown mascara applied, allowed to dry, then re-applied.
"Do you see the difference, baby? You're wearing the make-up instead of it wearing you. You've got on the same variety, but it's applied artistically. Anyone can pour the make-up on, but achieving a natural look is quite a trick.
"I've got to admit you're right, Mother," Charlene answered as she applied some Blush to give her cheeks a little color.
"What dress are you wearing?"
Charlene walked to the closet and pulled out a long-sleeved, low-necked matte jersey print. "Oh, yes, that dress is marvelous on you. Don't you think this soft coral lipstick would be pretty with it?"
"Yes, but bright shades are in, Mother."
"Charlene, you have to learn to go with the fashion just so long as it is complimentary to you. The minute something is not good for you, fuck it. You should never wear bright reds. At least, not until you're thirty. By that time they'll be back to white."
Charlene, subdued, took the coral lipstick from her mother, and when she finished applying it stood back and admired the completed job.
CHAPTER FIVE
At that moment they noticed Jon standing at the open door, leaning against the frame, drink in one hand and martini pitcher in the other.
"Well, I was beginning to think you both had divorced me. I didn't know you were conducting a class. You could get a job at the studio, Sonja."
Charlene could feel her bare nipples begin to harden and an excited shiver go down her spine as she looked at Jon. He looked so damned appealing in his white tennis shorts. He hadn't had a job for a while in between pictures as they said in the film industry so he played tennis every day.
"Come in. Join the party." Sonja said.
"I'm bringing the party to you. Want a refill?"
Sonja held her glass out to him as he poured. "I don't think you'd better have any before driving across town, Charlene," she said.
"Mr. M. gave me a Scotch before I drove home." She began to step into her dress.
"Scotch isn't as potent as martinis." Sonja wrinkled her forehead. "You know, that's a thought. I don't want you to do a lot of drinking and drive home late tonight. You'd better pack a bag."
"Mother! Just what am I expected to do with this man?" Sonja looked surprised. "Didn't Mr. M. make that clear to you?"
"He said I was to be very nice to him. Whatever that means."
Sonja became exasperated. Jon sat down on the bed with a silly grin on his face. "What do you think it means, Charlene? That you should play a nice game of chess with him?" Charlene blushed brighter than her Blush.
"Jon." Sonja turned to him. "Sorry, but you're going to have to cut Charlene off. Fun and games are all very well as long as they don't affect her career. Maybe when she gets a little hard up her understanding will improve."
This statement made Charlene bristle. "Listen, Mother, you may tell me how to make-up, but you can't tell me who to make! I don't notice you bothering much with anyone else since you've been going with Jon."
"Listen, young lady, I have earned my wings. Besides, I think I've been a most generous mother, sharing Jon with you." She noticed Charlene struggling with the zipper of her dress and went to help her with it.
Charlene held herself in check, for she knew this was true. As much as Jon enjoyed making love to her, Charlene knew he'd drop her in a minute if it disturbed the cushy setup he had with Sonja. He had just "sort of brought" all his belongings over one day, letting his apartment go. Before that, he had been there most of the time anyway, so Sonja hadn't objected. But he wasn't paying any household expenses, not even entertainment expenses. No, Jon would definitely not cross Sonja. She glanced at him. He was sipping his drink, his bronzed face inscrutable.
Charlene tried a different tactic. "All right, Mom, you win. What do I do? Fuck the guy?"
"Well, now, I don't know if that's what he'll want. Maybe he'll just want you to go down on him."
"Oh, Mother! I couldn't. I don't even know how."
"What?" Sonja shot Jon a questioning glance. He concentrated on his drink.
Sonja moved toward him, stood straight in front of him. "Jon." The tone of her voice commanded his attention. He looked up, his face bland. "Jon, you've been fucking and sucking my daughter at least once a day for almost two weeks. Do you mean to say that you haven't been instructing her in the fine art of fellatio?"
"No, I haven't even taught her to suck cock," he joked vainly.
"For Christ's sake! I thought I could depend on you to give her the full treatment. Why in hell haven't you?"
"I've got to go, Mother," Charlene interjected.
"Not so fast, young lady." She put out her hand to physically restrain Charlene if need be. "But I'll be late, Mother."
"I'll call him after you leave and tell him you've been detained. He'll thank me later. Jon, answer me."
"Well," he shrugged, "Goddamnit, Sonja, you're the best cocksucker in the world. I just didn't worry about not getting my cock sucked when I was with Charlene. I figured I could save that for you."
"Oh, did you, now? Well, you can just figure again. Charlene, come here."
Sonja's tone was very authoritative. Charlene did as she was told. "Jon, get your shorts off."
Jon anticipated what was to happen next, and by the time his shorts were off his manhood was already in full bloom.
"Let me help you out of that dress, Charlene. No use getting it messed up."
"What about my make-up, Mother?"
"Nobody's going to do anything to you, my dear, so just be careful and your make-up'll keep perfectly." Charlene seemed under control, so Sonja turned her attention to Jon, who, predictably, was very manageable.
"Sit right on the edge of the bed, Jon," Sonja commanded. To her daughter, she said, "Okay, Charlene, get on the floor in between his legs. That's it. Kneel. A subservient position always gives men like Hershfield an extra thrill."
Charlene did as she was told. Jon's large penis, staring her directly in the face, was producing a moistness between her thighs. Instinctively, she put her lips to the huge purplish glans in an affectionate kiss.
"That's very sweet, baby... " Sonja remarked, "... for starters. Now take his cock into your mouth. Slowly. That's right, take it all. I know it's a big one, but get all of it you can. Start out slowly and flick your tongue around as you're moving up and down. But that's something I can't really see, so I can't judge. You'll have to speak up, Jon."
"She's doing fine. Just fine," Jon said dreamily. "I want to lie down."
Charlene was sure she was dripping now. Oh, this gorgeous cock, she thought. I'd like to put it in me. I'd like to get on top of him right now and fuck like crazy. I'd like to feel it all the way up to my lungs.
"Okay, you do that. And, Charlene, you get up on the bed still between his legs. Cup his balls in one hand, be affectionate, lick them for good measure. That's right. Now, come back to the cock. Before you put your mouth over it again, lick it like it's a lollipop."
Jon's breathing was becoming heavier and he was making sounds of pleasure.
"That's it, baby," he moaned. "That's good. Good!"
Charlene had encompassed his penis again and was moving up and down, in faster and faster piston strokes, deeper and deeper. The youthful girl was a natural, and Sonja did not fail to recognize this valuable point. Not yet the pro, perhaps, that her mother was, Charlene had none the less displayed a natural talent. Sonja had mixed emotions.
Jon was obviously on the verge of exploding when Sonja pulled Charlene away and said, "Okay, that's fine, baby. Go brush your teeth and pack an overnight bag."
"Hey! What is this?" Jon rasped, visibly shaken.
"Don't worry, hon," Sonja smiled, "hold on a second, and the chief cocksucker'll take care of things don't go 'way."
"Mother, I'll have to do more than just brush my teeth. My dress will be soaked if I don't wash myself."
"You'll do no such thing. Your dress isn't going to get soaked, so you just leave everything as is. That way, when our Hershfield sticks his finger in you during dinner, unless I miss my guess she'll find a hot, wet cunt. Now, let's finish your lesson." She followed Charlene into the bathroom and continued her instructions as Charlene brushed her teeth. "When he comes if he likes to come that ways wallow it all, and act as if you're deliriously happy for the opportunity. Then lick his cock dry."
"Oh, Mother! I don't even want to go down on him much less swallow the stuff!"
"I don't give a shit what you want to do. Just do it. And remember, a thing worth doing is worth doing well. So make him believe you love it. Now, come on. Fix your lipstick, throw some things in a bag and get your ass out of here."
A few minutes later, as Charlene was hurrying down the stairs, she called up, "Mother, don't forget to make that call to Mr. Hershfield. I'm late now."
"I won't, darling," Sonja answered, leaning over the railing. "Have a good time. Drive carefully. Oh, and Charlene... "
"Yes, Mother?"
"... did you remember to take your pill today?"
"Yes, Mother."
"That's a good girl."
The front door slammed shut. Sonja began taking her clothes off while walking back to Charlene's bedroom to complete a job that was really no job at all. She tried vainly to remember if she had ever had to "pretend" she liked ingesting men's semen. She thought not. She allowed her pink tongue to flick out in a lip-moistening motion, a motion which clearly revealed her anticipation.
Monarchs have been known as "The Lion-Hearted,"
"The Ill-Tempered," and so on, and the Prince of the sportswear buyers was no exception. Throughout the industry, the name of "Hershfield, the Arrogant" was well-known.
He had reserved the darkest corner in an elite, commodious, poorly illuminated restaurant. By prior arrangement, he had been assured he and his striking young lady would be seated side by side, rather than facing one another.
Mom was right, Charlene thought. They had only begun their salads and already she could feel Hershfield's hand find its way through the slit in her dress to the inside of her knee.
"First job modeling, huh?" he said, apparently offering a vocal distraction in the belief his hand might not be noticed. "You're a natural, honey. You'll go a long way. Provided you don't just stick yourself in a downtown wholesale house. If you want to make the big money, you've got to circulate."
"Oh, I know that, Mr. Hershfield... "
"Hershey to you, baby."
"Hershey. I'll only be working for Mr. M. for half the year, and the rest of the time I'll be freelancing. He's letting me come in late one day next week so I can go on an interview for a hair commercial. And if I make it, it'll probably come up when I'm through for a while with Hollywood Sunwear."
"You'll make it." He put his fork down and ran his hand over her hair. "You've got a great face to go with that beautiful hair. How can you miss?"
"Well, I haven't seen my competition," Charlene answered, trying not to succumb to the flattery. Then, as if the conversation had suddenly become very secondary, a silence fell over the two as Charlene realized that Hershfield's hand was on the move. She flinched as his hand moved higher up the inside of her thigh.
"Spread your legs, honey. Let Hershey get acquainted with your cute little friend up there."
Charlene felt flushed. She hadn't expected things to go this fast. Fortunately, she had had a couple of martinis.
"Oh, but Mr. I mean, Hershey. Isn't it a little soon to... "
"Don't get coy with me. Just do what I tell you to do."
Charlene definitely detected a mean tone in his voice. She spread her legs enough to allow his hand to move around freely.
"That's better," he said, treating her to a smile. "Hey, what's this? Underpants?"
"Well, yes. Of course."
"Go to the ladies' room and take them off."
"What!" Charlene could hardly believe her ears.
"You heard me go take them off."
"Right now?"
"Right now." And then, when she didn't jump up immediately, he added gruffly, "When I say right now, sister, I mean a minute ago."
Charlene put her fork down. Oh, well, she thought resignedly, I guess I'd better play it his way. She looked down ruefully at the barely touched salad and thought, Oh, well. I only wanted a bite or two anyway. Besides, the dressing probably contained too many calories.
"Wait a minute," he said as she stood up. He fished into his pocket and pulled out a new fifty-cent piece.
"For the girl."
In the ladies' room she removed her panties. She was quick to discover that all the lubrication from earlier had disappeared. In fact, being with Mr. Hershfield seemed to have dried her up. She opened a tube of vaseline a precautionary article Sonja had insisted she bring along and spread it around her clitoris-again per Sonja's instructions. As she touched her tiny mound, she felt a thrill shoot through her body. She put on more and rubbed it in. Well, she thought, I might even get naturally lubricated again if I keep this up.
She washed her hands, tipped the girl, and walked back to the table, feeling the fabric of her dress rub sensuously against her now-bare buttocks.
The steaks had just arrived, and Charlene's attention was immediately diverted to the food. But it was not to be. As soon as she was seated, Hershfield's hand dove through the slit in her dress and up between her thighs. "Open wide, baby," he said.
Charlene obeyed.
"Oh, baby!" he exclaimed as his finger explored her vulva. "You're all ready for the ol' Hershey bar." He laughed uproariously at his own joke.
Charlene shivered physically at the idea. Nothing, she thought, could be less romantic or less funny. Hershfield detected the shiver also, but misconstrued it as representing excitement, anticipation.
"Hardly wait, huh? Well, hurry up and eat your steak, so good ole Hershey can take care of you."
He had to take his hand away in order to cut his steak. For this, at least, Charlene was thankful. "Stay as lovely as you are," he said as he gave her a few parting pats on the pubic hair.
"Yes, sir, I'm going to place a huge order with Mr. M., baby. I think I'll just drop Leisure Line and give it all to Hollywood Sunwear. And all because of you! What the hell, Hollywood Sun-wear can give me everything I need in the sportswear line."
As easy as that! Just think, all I've had to do was spread my legs a little and now it seems to be all set. That was the whole point, wasn't it? Get the business?
For an insane instant Charlene thought perhaps she might have already completed her assignment. Maybe I can just go home after dinner. Then, sobering from such thoughts, she realized there was still a game to be played. However, a certain tension seemed to have been lessened, and Charlene heaved a sigh of relief. Turning to him she asked, "What else do you buy, Hershey?"
"You name it, sweetheart. I've got to fill up a hundred and fifty stores with wearing apparel. Hey, a thought just came to me. They got some gorgeous fake fur-trimmed coats out this year. You know, fake on account of the ecology bit but beautiful, just the same." He favored her with a twinkle in his watery blue eyes, then "If you're really super-sweet to me, I'll bring you one next trip. September. When I come out for the holiday market week. You'll get it just in time for the cool weather."
Charlene wasn't really sure whether to take all this too seriously, so she simply smiled and murmured her thanks.
The bus boy cleared the dishes away and the waiter reappeared. "Dessert, honey?"
Charlene nodded. She felt full, but wanted to stall the inevitable as long as possible. Hershfield's face fell. "Ya do? I thought all you models skipped fattening things."
"I never put on weight. Could I have some cheesecake?"
He smiled again. "'Course. You can have anything you want, baby." He turned to the waiter. "Cheesecake for the lady."
"Will there be anything for you, sir?"
"No, I'll have my dessert later," he answered, casting a knowing glance at Charlene.
She thought she would die of embarrassment. Why the need for such obviousness? The waiter did not acknowledge the crass remark.
"We'll have liqueur sent up to the suite. No more sitting around in public, baby... I want us to be alone." With that he leaned toward her, insinuated his hand between her thighs once again and forcefully jabbed his finger into her vagina.
As soon as the room door was closed Hershfield grabbed Charlene in a rough embrace. "Kick off your shoes, honey. Come on down to my size."
Charlene obeyed impassively, and then they stood nose to nose, the Junoesque mannequin and her Chaplinesque escort.
"That's better," he said, stepping forward and pinching her breast. "Boy, you feel good. Come on, let's go into the bedroom and get that dress off. I wanna see you."
At least, Charlene thought, she had by this time gotten over her modesty. It seemed she was forever standing around at the factory clad only in panties. If they weren't fitting her, she was trying on something, and the workers would just come and go, not paying the least bit of attention. That was not quite the case now as she stepped out of her dress, but the shop experience did help some.
Hershfield's eyes brightened as he appraised Charlene's beauty.
"What a perfect body. You've got it all, kid." With that, he leaped forward and grabbed a handful of bare buttocks. "What an ass! And these tits!" He tried to devour one with his mouth.
Charlene quickly realized she would soon be a mass of bruises at this rate. She was used to Jon, who was masculine, but a tender lover. Real men, she knew, don't have to play the "manliness" game.
He took his mouth away. "Hey, you know, you got the best-lookin' pair of knockers I've ever seen on a model. They are really pretty. Get the bed down. I'll be right back." He disappeared into the bathroom.
Please, for God's sake, take your time.
But she promptly obeyed this most recent order, just as she had the preceding. It seemed as if in some strange way the bombastic Mr. Hershfield had a way of mesmerizing her with his officiousness. Then, on a much more pragmatic level, she told herself, What the hell! I'm earning a fat Christmas bonus just by permitting a little fat guy to boss me around. Why, if it wasn't such a dreary experience, it might almost be funny!
She sat on the bed, fluffed the pillows, and then settled back against them, scrutinizing the room. It was luxurious by any standards French provincial furniture, heavy drapes, carpeting deep enough to get lost in.
What am I doing here? she asked herself. But before she could think too deeply upon the matter, Mr. Hershfield reappeared in his full glory. His plump, milky body was as bare as his head. She had to restrain a giggle, for he reminded her of the New Year's baby. That went for his penis, too. Oh, God, she thought, if I'm to get anything out of this, I'll have to start from scratch.
He sat down, bouncily, beside her. "I'll ring for the drinks," he announced. "What d'ya want?"
Charlene felt like saying a bottle of vodka then perhaps she could just pass out and simplify things. But her better senses prevailed. "Creme de cacao, please."
He ordered the drinks, then turned to Charlene. "Let's just fool around a little till they come." He grabbed her physically and pressed his lips hard against hers. She could feel the hardness of his teeth as he pushed his tongue into her mouth. Immediately, by contrast, she thought of Jon's soft, loving, sensual kisses even Tom could kiss better than this supposedly experienced man.
He ran his hands over her as if he were handling a bale of hay, and again by contrast she thought of Jon's sensitive hands, of his caresses... Oh, a man's touch is so important, she thought, trying hard not to shudder.
A sudden knock on the door caused Hershfield to jump up and grab his robe from a chair. "Don't go away, little dumplin'. ol' Hershey'll be right back with the goodies."
The drinks were delivered and Charlene had time for but one small sip of hers when Hershfield grabbed it out of her hand, at the same time pushing her head down to his crotch. "Here, I'll give ya somethin' better to taste."
The dreaded moment had arrived she was now face-to-face with his tiny, limp penis. Almost as a defensive maneuver, she closed her eyes and tried vainly to pretend it was Jon's lovely cock she was about to take in her mouth.
Somehow she knew that she would have to successfully perpetuate this fantasy if she was to survive the evening with her own identity intact. Keeping also in mind that she must not come across to her "patron" as a novice, she started slowly the way her mother had instructed. She swirled her tongue, she licked, she kissed his balls, all seemingly to no avail, since his penis remained as flaccid as ever. And yet, he complimented her.
"Say, you're some kinda expert, aren't you? Who taught you to suck cock like that?"
Charlene stopped long enough to say, "My mother."
Hershfield's face broke out in a mirthful smile, the first of the evening. "I see you've got a good sense of humor, too."
Taking advantage of the temporary pause, and also feeling the need to lose herself as much as possible, Charlene stopped her work to take a sip of her drink. Hershfield knocked the glass out of her hand. "I didn't say you could stop."
Charlene stared at him.
"Get back to your job!" His order was accompanied by a sharp slap on her bare buttocks. For the first time that evening she was unable to control her own temper. "Don't you dare slap me!" she snapped.
"Oh, a temper, huh?" He smiled nastily. Then he seized her in a quick grasp and pulled her over his knee, whereupon he proceeded unceremoniously to spank her. Not as hard as her father had, but quite a spanking just the same.
"Stop it!" she screamed. "I moved in with my mother because my father did this to me!"
"I'm not hurtin' you," Hershfield interrupted without missing a stroke, "I'm just showing you who's boss."
"If you make marks on me, my mother will kill you! I don't care how important you are!"
He slapped away. "I'm not going to make any marks. Are you going to be a good girl?"
"Yes. Stop. Please stop."
"Okay." He pulled her up. The tears ran down her cheeks.
Through teary eyes she saw his smiling face and then, lower down, evidence of what she hadn't been able to achieve with all of her expert sucking his erection.
He pushed her down on the bed and stuck his finger in her vagina. "You're nice and wet, baby, and now you're gonna get a nice Hershey bar up there."
Charlene thought how odd it was that she was, indeed, wet. And she did feel like getting fucked it was a strange mixture of repulsion and sexual desire. But before she could consider it at all, perhaps submit willingly, he plunged his penis completely within her wet folds.
This is more like it, she thought if he'd just fuck me and cut out the other crap it wouldn't be half bad. She was actually getting into the swing of things, beginning to let go, when on about the fifth sharp jab he began shaking and cried, "Oh, I'm coming, baby. I'm coming!" Then he pressed his hard mouth against hers in a suffocating fusion.
A minute later, he rolled off and said, "Baby, you are the greatest." Even as he said this, he was trying hard to catch his breath, as if his five quick strokes had been five hundred, and his forehead and cheeks seemed highly flushed. Calming somewhat, he turned to Charlene and said in a softer voice, "I'll tell you a secret. I haven't been able to get my cock hard enough to fuck for a year. I was beginning to think I was impotent that is, until tonight. Boy, we're gonna fuck every night I'm in town." His continuing brusque tone could not conceal the fact that he was highly elated.
When Charlene was sure he was asleep, she tiptoed into the bathroom, cleaned up and dressed. It was only midnight and she wasn't about to hang around for another session in a few hours. She'd done her duty, she wasn't drunk, and she could drive home without any assistance. If her mother didn't like it, let her go out with good ol' Hershey herself, chew on his bar, get spanked, have his "ol' bar" shoved in her just long enough to get her interested and then leave her frustrated.
Besides, she felt turned on, and if she hurried home there might still be some leftovers.
And not in the refrigerator.
CHAPTER SIX
Joyce stormed into Sid Morris's private office.
"How could you do this to me, Mr. M.?" she demanded. Her smock hung open and her young firm breasts quivered with indignation.
Sid looked up from his bookwork and peered at her over his spectacles. "What did I do, Joyce?"
Joyce breathed deeply, as one does in the throes of exasperation, before answering.
"You let Charlene go out with Mr. Hershfield. Before, you always let me entertain the big accounts. Not only do I need the bonuses I get for bringing in large orders, I also happen to like those expensive restaurants. What other chance do I get to go to such nice places as Mr. Hershfield takes a girl? At home I'm always taking care of my mother and brothers cooking, cleaning... " She trailed off tearfully.
Sid seemed genuinely sorry. He listened attentively, and he sincerely empathized with the girl and her circumstances. But he had to be practical, too; he must always consider business first.
"I'm sorry, Joyce," he explained, "but Mr. Hershfield specifically asked for Charlene. He just flipped the minute he saw her."
"He did, did he? Well, you could have talked him out of it. After all, she's awfully young and inexperienced. How could she be expected to know how to handle him?"
Sid couldn't help relaxing back into his seat and allowing a small smile of self-satisfaction to crease his face. He answered, but not in gloating terms, "She brought in the largest order he's ever made with us, Joyce." He hoped this information would not be too much of a blow to her ego.
Joyce was immediately defensive. "Well, he was probably going to place the order anyway. It was a coincidence."
"Not likely, Joyce. After last night, he's decided to drop Leisure Line altogether. He's giving us all of his sportswear business."
Joyce stood with her mouth open for a minute before she recovered. "It's very strange," she said softly. "He sure was happy with me last time. He said I gave the best head ever. And you know that's true, too, Mr. M." She walked around the desk and reached for his fly. "Or should I refresh your memory?"
Sid laughed and pushed her hand away. "Oh, Joyce, come on now. I've got work to do. Besides, you shouldn't be upset by Hershfield's reaction. Who knows? Maybe the guy just has to have a strange piece of ass every time."
Joyce flipped her long dark hair back and headed for the door. "Hardly," she replied, "he certainly never made any use of it." With that she sailed haughtily out the door, seemingly recovered from her self-doubt.
Sid Morris was somewhat puzzled. He was trying to figure out both Joyce's reaction as well as just what Charlene's specialty might have been for, indeed, Hershfield had been quite unlike himself since when Judith peeked her nose in the door and announced Sonja.
Busy morning, he mused, awaiting Sonja's entrance. When she appeared, he arose, strode to the front of his desk and embraced her. "My favorite model back to see old Dad."
"Old Dad hasn't changed a bit," Sonja said, objecting not at all as he squeezed her breast. "You look great."
"You're the one who looks great, Sonja. Honestly, you haven't changed in ten years. What's your secret?"
"At least one good orgasm every day," she laughed throatily as she plunked herself into a soft leather chair. "Hey, I hear my baby made a home run for you. How about that!"
"She sure did. She's her mother's daughter all right." He produced his lighter for Sonja's cigarette.
"She's better than I ever was, simply because she's got me to train her," Sonja replied shrewdly.
That's true, Sid thought. What a beauty. She could be a cover girl if she went to New York. Or she could be a movie star. And I've got her working for Hollywood Sunwear.
"Yes, I suppose that's right," Sid said aloud. "And, of course, she'll get a good bonus at Christmas time."
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Sid." Sonja took a deep drag on her cigarette and shifted her legs so Mr. M. could see how pretty they still were. "Seeing that Charlene will only be working here part time and we don't know how much money she'll be making in between, she needs that bonus now. In fact, I think results like this deserve a double bonus. Don't you?" She asked this last innocently, as if she didn't already know the clinking cash register in his brain was giving him a headache.
But this was nothing new. It was a game they had played many times before. Sonja had been the best model he'd ever had, especially for purposes of reinforcing a big sale. He had always given her larger commissions than the other girls that is, after they haggled a while. It had always been a game they both enjoyed.
"Double bonus!" he bellowed. Dramatizing was part of the expected etiquette, but this time he was sincere. "Nobody has ever been given a double bonus, Sonja. Not even you."
"There's a first time for everything, darling. Besides, I told you the daughter's better than the mother."
"Ha," he said, collapsing back into his swivel chair. "Nobody's better than my little Sonja." He added a charming smile.
Sonja stubbed out her cigarette. "I love you, Sid, baby, but I love my daughter more. I'm working for her now. And I know she's earned a double bonus."
"But, Sonja, on that huge order, it'll be a fortune," he pleaded with her.
Ha! she thought. He's losing his composure. He's groping for excuses! "Well, it is a huge order, Sid so huge that Leisure Line would be tickled to give her that double bonus if she'd only go to work for them. They'd have their own business back, plus all of yours," she added slyly.
It was no longer a game. Sid Morris felt his stomach churn and the old ulcer threaten to erupt. Sonja saw the pained expression on his face, but thought it was only a part of the expected theatrics. So when he said, "I'll give her an extra fifty percent and that's it," she responded lightly.
"That won't do. Not a penny less than seventy-five."
"It's a deal," he said quickly. He took her hand to seal the bargain.
With business out of the way, they chatted a few minutes about the old days and the many old wholesale houses that had been driven out of business.
"Well, I've an appointment before lunch." She stood up. Sid came around the desk and kissed her goodbye and showed her to the door.
When the door was closed he muttered, "Once a cunt, always a cunt."
"Go in there right now and thank your boss, honey. He's decided to give you an extra-large bonus."
Charlene looked at her mother coolly. "Oh? Who told you that?"
"Why, he did, baby. I've just now been in there, breaking my ass bargaining with him."
Charlene felt anger rise. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms until they hurt. In a low, monitored voice she replied, "Who asked you to, Mother? You let me do my own fucking and sucking how come you feel I'm incapable of doing my own bargaining?"
Sonja was surprised at a complete loss. She faltered, "Why baby, this is an old game between Mr. M. and me. I thought you'd be glad. I got you more than anyone's ever gotten."
"How much?
"One and three-fourths bonuses."
Charlene drew her breath in. "I'd rather you fucked and sucked that repulsive old man for me, Mother, than what you did. Besides, I'd been planning on a double bonus!"
"Don't you think I started out trying for a double, darling?"
"Well, you may have started with it, but I intend to stick with it." Then her voice raised, "You don't know what I went through last night, Mother!" She yanked her belt tightly around her smock and stalked out, leaving Sonja for the first time in her life speechless.
Then Sonja thought to herself, if she does actually get a double bonus, then she really is better than her mother.
She left the building in a daze.
Ruth caught Charlene as she was stamping into Mr. M.'s private office. "Charlene, I need to fit you for the baby-blue slack outfit for the holiday line."
"Not now, Ruth," Charlene answered sharply.
Ruth came to a halt, utterly surprised. Charlene had always been a sweet girl this was difficult to understand. Ruth drifted away without another word.
Charlene stood at the open door of Mr. Morris's office, pulling herself together. She took a deep breath, stuck a smile on her face, then walked in.
"Charlene!"
Mr. Morris rose quickly, took her by the hand and led her to his black leather couch against the wall. "I was just going to send for you. Come, let's sit here where we can have a nice friendly chat."
Charlene murmured something cordial in reply and then sat down demurely, allowing only a nominal amount of thigh to be exposed.
"Well," he began, rubbing his hands together, seating himself close beside her. "You really pulled a caper, bringing old Hershey right to the goal post like you did."
"You pulled a pretty good caper, too, Mr. M.," said Charlene, smiling sweetly.
"What do you mean?"
"You're doing business with me, Mr. M., not my mother. That extra seventy-five percent doesn't hold. I want double."
Sid pursed his lips and took a good look at Charlene. "You've grown up a lot since yesterday, young lady."
"Yes, I have, Mr. M. You might say I've been spanked into a new life."
"Well, I'll tell you what I'm going to do, Charlene." He slipped his hand onto her knee. "I'm going to give you double money if you entertain me a little bit."
She gave him a sidelong glance. "Oh, you mean to get a double bonus I've got to earn it twice?" He laughed. "No, no, no. I just want you to tell me about last night." Now Charlene laughed. "You want my trade secrets, huh?"
"No, no, I just like hearing about it. Don't you understand?"
"Well, I guess it can't hurt," Charlene laughed, "because nobody here can compete with me even at eighteen, Joyce is too old. You'd have to find someone fourteen to beat me out of 'ole Hershey.' "
"Is that it? He likes real young girls?"
"That's only part of it, Mr. M."
"Charlene, before you start, open your smock and let me have a look at those perfect breasts." He reached for her belt and gave it a pull, then parted the smock with a soft caress of his fingers across the nipples of her breasts.
Why not? Charlene thought. No real harm not after what I've been through. "Go on, my dear, tell me."
"Well, it all started at dinner when he made me go to the ladies' room and remove my panties." Sid could feel his penis begin to grow.
"I could tell by the harsh way he acted there was something different about him, but at that time I was too inexperienced to figure out what it was."
"Yes?" Sid's breathing became harder as Charlene recounted the playing around under the table during dinner, then he became impatient for more details. "All right, get on to the part that's different," he urged.
"Well, when we got back to his hotel room he ordered drinks... "
"Cut out all the unimportant stuff, Charlene."
"It is important, because he got mad when I stopped going down on him for a minute to take a sip of my drink."
"Oh, I see. Go on."
"He gave me a sharp slap on my rear and when I got mad he pulled me over his knee and really spanked me. Then he got a hardon."
So did Sid upon hearing about it. He undid his fly and pulled out his erection.
Looking at Charlene, almost pleading, he said, "Just stroke him a little bit, will you, Charlene? I'd love that."
"No, Mr. M. Our deal was to tell you a story, and only a story." Sid's immediate puzzlement was slowly turning to an irritation.
How could she have turned from that sweet little flower into this sharp little thorn overnight, he wondered.
"Very well," he said, stroking his own penis. "Well, that's the main part. He said he hasn't been able to get enough of a hardon to actually fuck a girl for a year now. He's only been able to get sucked off. It made him feel like a young stud again to be able to fuck."
"Your language is becoming atrocious, Charlene. You mustn't lose your class, not for a minute, not even with me. Say 'screw' or 'lay' or even 'hump,' but don't say 'fuck,' unless you're about to do it. And that goes for 'sucked off,' too. Say 'giving head' or 'going down' unless you are actually about to do some sucking off." He looked from her to his completed erected penis.
Charlene ignored the hint.
Thickheaded little broad! Sid fumed to himself.
Maybe a little drastic action was called for. If he was about to get screwed out of excessive bonus money, he might as well try for a bonus himself.
"I'll tell you what I'm going to do for you, Charlene," he told her. "Besides giving you a double bonus," he went on as he leaned over quickly and yanked her panties off before she could react, "I'm going to suck you off." He pushed her down on her back. His head was between her thighs and his tongue on her pea-sized clitoris before she could actually mobilize an objection.
Charlene's immediate reaction was to squirm and struggle, but Mr. M's palms were assertively holding her thighs apart as well as pinned down. And then the soft, liquid thunderbolt of sensation began to assert itself upon her awareness. Her struggling quieted, her anxiety softened. She began to relax.
How come, she had started to think, that all men thought they were God's gift to cunt-eating? Then she forgot to think, for dear Mr. M. was making her tingle with desire she found herself wanting more. He sucked and licked her little spot until she was overcome by the heat of her own body and she broke into a multiple spasm of orgasms.
Then, suddenly, it was over. Sid wiped his dripping mouth with a linen handkerchief. "Oh, oh, Mr. M." she moaned. "That was so nice... " He looked down at her, relieved to see that she was her old relaxed and sweet self again. He wanted to continue all this, get his cock sucked, maybe fuck the girl, but his better business senses prevailed. He decided not to pursue her for his cause, but rather to save her strength for "good ol' Hershey" that evening. "Okay, cutie, put your pants on and get back to work. Don't ever say your boss isn't good to you."
"I'd never say that," she smiled as she slipped her panties on and fastened her smock. "I have to go and let Ruth fit me. I brushed her off when I came in here."
Sid walked back to his desk and relaxed in his chair. "Judith," he spoke into the intercom, "get Joyce in here."
"Joyce is showing the line, Mr. M."
"I don't give a fuck what she's showing," he said, in one of his rare outbursts. "Charlene can show the line."
"Charlene is getting a fitting."
"That can wait! I want Joyce in here immediately!"
"Yes, Mr. M.," Judith twittered.
In minutes, Joyce appeared.
Sid leaned back in his chair as Joyce shut the door. "I've got something for you, baby." Joyce looked at the large erection as she came around the desk. Her face lit up. "Oh! All for me?" She was needed after all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Charlene recognized the flashy yellow car parked in front of the house. It meant Nicky and Lola were visiting. Going to be a swinging house tonight, she thought.
Quietly she let herself in the front door and was successful in sneaking halfway up the stairs before she heard Sonja's voice from the living room.
"Charlene? That you?"
"Yes, Mom."
"Come in, honey, and say hello to Nicky and Lola. You're just in time to watch Weak Minds, Strong Hearts with us."
Oh, my God, Charlene thought, I'd rather keep my date with ol' Hershey and go through another spanking than have to sit through that movie again.
She came back down the stairs, knowing she was trapped. She had to at least say hello to the guests. From the living room archway, she could see that Nicky and Lola were bombed out of their skulls. And who could blame them? This was at least their fiftieth viewing of Sonja in her "starring" role, and they were in the only condition possible to suffer it through again. Of course, they didn't need much of an excuse to lap up the juice for that matter, Sonja and Jon weren't too far behind. However, one could make book that Sonja would be sure they stayed sober enough to run the projector. Charlene couldn't understand how her mother could bear seeing that stinker over and over again without boring even herself to tears, much less her friends.
How sad, really, she thought, to have to keep drawing upon that old film her hour of glory for reassurance.
"Hi, Nicky... Lola." Charlene used her "bright" smile.
Lola looked up and squinted at Charlene. Her frowzy bleached hair was strewn against the cushioned green velvet divan. "Charly, baby! My goodness, you've grown. Come, let me see you." Nicky whistled. "Yeh, she's sure grown," he said. Sonja beamed.
Jon wore a giveaway grin. His look of pride virtually announced that he had been very close to this "grown-up" girl.
Nicky, animal sensitivity fully operational, saw and read that look accurately. He rose and put his arm around Charlene. "How about a kiss hello for Uncle Nicky?"
"All right, Uncle Nicky," Charlene answered, throwing her arms around him. She gave him a kiss that very nearly sobered him up.
When he got his breath back, he exclaimed, "Why, young lady, you really have grown up, haven't you?"
Charlene gazed at him, basking in his admiration. What a shame Nicky isn't a big buyer, she thought in her now fully alert mind. He was cute typically Italian gangster style with dark bedroom eyes and black curly hair. Inadvertently her eyes dropped to his crotch, and from what she saw she surmised he had a nice big hard cock when he was sober. In fact, from the appearance of his trousers, it might even be usable right now, alcohol notwithstanding.
Nicky didn't miss the little trip her eyes had taken, and when they returned to meet his gaze he made her know what he knew.
But, she thought, what a pity that all the appealing men were ne're-do-wells half-baked actors or tennis bums.
"Come on, baby. Join us," Sonja said, taking Charlene by the hand and trying to sit her down. "We're going to watch the movie before dinner. Start it, Jon."
The film flashed onto the blank wall and there was Sonja, bigger than life, in her ten-year-old hairdo and ten-year-old wardrobe but not looking a day younger than at this moment.
"After dinner we intend to create our own entertainment," Sonja said with a twinkle in her eyes. "You really ought to stick around, dear."
"I'd love to, Mom," Charlene said, "but I have to rush. It's Hershey's last night in town for two whole months, and I promised to spend all my available time with him."
Sonja was nonplussed she was well aware of the importance of the "Hershey-bar" relationship. She went right on to another subject. "Oh, that reminds me, you received a package today chauffeur-delivered, no less. I put it on your bed."
"Oh! Who's it from?" Charlene rushed. She loved surprises, especially mysterious surprises. "I don't know. But the driver said he picked it up at the Ambassador Hotel."
"Oooh! See you all later." With that, she flew up the stairs.
"Oh, Charlene," Sonja called up the stairs with her afterthought, "Tom phoned you today."
But Charlene didn't hear. Oh, well, Sonja thought, I'll tell her tomorrow. I don't know why she hasn't seen him lately. He's a good-looking boy. No, I take that back he's a beautiful young man. If he so much as leaned toward me, I'd trip him to the ground and jump on top.
Then she forgot everything and turned her full attention to her blown-up likeness on the wall. Jon operated the projector while staring dazedly at the movie. Nicky and Lola were snoring on the couch.
Charlene bounced into her room. There it was on the bed; a large, brown paper-covered package. The mysteries of the Orient couldn't have been more tantalizing to Charlene at that moment. She tore off the wrappings in a flash. There was an envelope, but she couldn't refrain from pulling the article out of the box before opening the note. It was a long white eyelet dress with a low-cut organdy ruffle at the top and a shocking pink sash which fit tight up under the bust.
How adorable, Charlene thought as she ripped open the envelope.
She read: A spanking new dress for you to wear tonight, my baby.
Love, Hershey Charlene smiled. It really wasn't too bad, his spankings. Certainly nothing like the one her own father had applied. Hershey didn't cause any bruises or welts, or even a redness that would show up later. It was really more of a game with him and, the way things were going, a profitable game for her.
She held the dress up to the mirror. Isn't it nice that the "little girl look" is in, she thought.
"Hi, Charly, baby," she said to her reflection. "How's the girl?" Girl? she thought she heard the reflection speak back. In that dress, you may look fourteen, but you're a big girl now. Are you ever!
You know what you're doing and where you're going.
Or do you? a small voice deep inside of her asked.
Then she ran into the shower, if for no other reason than to drown out her own voice.
"What a pretty baby," Hershey said, as he opened the door to his suite. Charlene was standing before him, clad in her new dress. He was still in his silk robe. Charlene gave him a kiss on the mouth.
"Thank you, Hershey. I love it," she said. He took her by the hand and sat her on the couch.
"I thought you might like something different. I know you can get long dresses at work, but they're too tailored."
"That's right. And with my big car payments I can't really spend the money on good dresses." She didn't know the actual cost of the dress, but it would certainly be substantial. Of course, it probably cost Hershfield little or nothing, but that was beside the point.
"I just want to make my baby happy," Hershey smiled. It seemed he was a much more pleasant person now that he could get a hardon. What a difference sexual potency meant, Charlene thought.
He slid his hand up underneath the long skirt. "You've got panties on, you naughty girl," he said sternly, but he didn't really seem put off, the way he'd been that first night.
She looked at him coyly, knowing she had done the right thing. "Well, you just won't behave," he sighed. "I guess I'm going to have to spank you."
"Oh, no, please don't," she wailed, playing the game exactly as he wanted it. Her intuition, in this regard, was impeccable.
"I'm sorry, but you are just going to have to learn, Charlene." With that he pulled her over his knee, flung up the long flouncy skirt and pulled down her lacy white panties. She could already feel his penis beginning to harden beneath her groin.
"Are you ever going to wear panties when you're with me again?" he demanded as he began his slapping of her buttocks.
"No, no, I promise," Charlene responded, counterfeiting a sob, although she felt little. "Stop. Oh, please stop," she entreated. "I won't do it again."
"How can I believe you? You always say that." He continued spanking, perhaps a bit harder.
"Give me another chance. I'll be good. Please stop." It was now tedious for Charlene since he was actually striking harder as well as carrying it on for too long a time. Blood was rushing to her head. Maybe she wasn't convincing him. "I mean it, Hershey," she said sharply. "Now, stop."
"Oh, yeah?" he said, hitting harder. "Don't forget who's the boss, baby."
At this moment, Charlene wondered if it was all really worth it. The repetitive slaps were beginning to hurt. She started crying for real and begging him to stop.
Abruptly the ritual ended and Hershey-bar stretched her out on the couch, leaving her dress pushed up to her waist. He stood to untie the belt of his robe. As he readied to enter her, she interrupted, "No! Let me take the dress off. It'll get ruined."
"No, Goddamnit. I wanta fuck you with it on." With that he plunged into her and pumped away. Despite herself she eagerly met his newly found manhood with her dewy little bush realizing now that she dearly loved to be fucked regardless of the desirability of the man, and then just as she was about to work up to an orgasm he began to shake. It was all over.
"Oh, baby, you are the greatest," he said proudly, as if he might just have accomplished something mutually grand. He kissed her full on the mouth, his weight falling in a dead heap upon her.
"Let me go to the bathroom, Hershey," Charlene asked, pushing him off her body.
"Okay, baby."
She picked up her overnight bag and fled to the bathroom.
Goddamnit, she thought. Look at me! The dress is crushed and soiled, I need another douche and bath, and it'll take me twenty minutes to repair my make-up. I ask you, Charlene, is it really worth it? You didn't even come, you dumb broad!
She spent forty minutes going through her customary rituals, then came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel.
Hershey was sitting at his desk in the bedroom, going over some work. "My God, I thought you'd drowned in there," he said.
"Takes a little time to get ready again," she snapped. She threw the dress on the bed. "I can't wear this it looks like a bulldozer's been practicing turns on it."
He inspected the dress. Sure enough it was not only wrinkled; pools of his cum were soaking into it.
"Oh, well," he replied, "it'll come out at the cleaners. Don't you have something in that bag you can wear tonight?"
"Sure," she said, pulling out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Since the next day was Saturday she needed little else to drive home.
"You've got a funny look on your face, baby. Is everything okay?"
"Oh, I suppose," she invented. New dress ruined, absolutely starving, nothing to wear to dinner, sexually frustrated to the point that hell wouldn't have it. "I suppose" should have been an adequate answer, but she knew it wasn't.
In desperation she approached him, letting her towel drop, and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I'm all kissy clean, Hershey," she said sweetly. "Baby feels cranky. Don't you want to kiss baby?"
"Sure I do," he said, planting a kiss on her lips.
"That isn't exactly what I meant, Hershey," she said, pulling away. "I meant down here." She patted her downy pubis.
Hershey's eyes opened wide. "I've never done that!" he replied, seemingly horrified. "Well, you don't know what you're missing. I thought everybody ate pussy these days."
"Not me," he said adamantly.
"Come lie down on the bed with me, Hershey. It's time you learned how."
"Look," he said, balking as she tugged him toward the bed, "I've gotten through fifty years without it. I can go a few more."
She had him on the bed now, removing his robe. "You're not going to go another thirty seconds without trying it, if you want to keep your baby," she said seductively. "I'm hotter than the sun at a five-mile range. I have to come." She took his hand and placed it between her wet thighs.
"Your cunt's dripping. You sure you douched?"
"Positive. That's me plus a little of you, maybe. I told you I'm hot. Come on, give her a little kiss." Reluctantly he put his head down between her satin thighs and pecked at her lower lips. Charlene couldn't restrain a giggle. "Hershey, baby, come here." She grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him softly on the mouth, letting her tongue caress his tongue. "Like that," she said.
He went back to his position and tried again. This time she could feel his tongue flick her clitoris, then his mouth cover it as he sucked. Abruptly, he stopped. "Hey! You taste good," he said, obviously surprised.
"I told you. If you tried it, you'd like it," she said softly. "A little more, please."
He went back between her thighs and continued to lick and suck. In a few minutes he was rewarded by her trembling and quaking and cries of sweet release as she tumbled over and over into a repetitive orgasm. Afterwards he said, holding her in his arms, "Baby, you were beautiful."
She felt something hard pressing against her thigh and looked down. The old bastard had another hardon!
He was a king as he pushed his engorged penis into her again. This young lady had put new life, new breath, new rigidity into him. Now he would do anything to keep her happy anything to keep her his personal little girl.
And, quite naturally, he was able to perform longer this time. Charlene thus had the benefit of another orgasm. And, for an instant, she found herself actually warming to the experience.
Afterward they lay there, both well spent. Then, rising on an elbow and turning to Charlene with a new kind of attentiveness, Hershey said, "You know, I don't think I can wait two months to be with you again. And, well, I was thinking, since you'll be free for a while after your next market week, maybe we could work something out."
"Like what?"
"Well, if I send you the plane fare would you come to Utah for a few days? I'll put you up at the Hilton."
"Gee, Hershey, that sounds great, but I'll be off salary so I'll have to be hustling for work. I'm going on that hair commercial interview Monday and I sure don't know what's going to happen from there."
"Listen, with your looks you should be playing movie parts big parts. I can introduce you to the right people if you know what I mean."
"Oh, my mother knows people too, but that doesn't get you the job."
"I guarantee she doesn't know anybody as big as David Rotheimer. This guy would use ten-thousand-dollar bills for Kleenex if they were a little softer."
"David Rotheimer!
Do you really know him?"
"Like a brother. Being a public figure, he's got to be careful of bad publicity, so he needs someone like me to fix him up quietly when he's out traveling around. And take it from me, baby, he loves young ladies like you."
"And you think he might give me a part?"
"Can you act?"
"The only thing I've ever done was the lead in the school play but everybody said I was terrific."
"You probably were. I got a feeling you're a natural. And besides, David prefers to get them raw so he can train them his own way. Says kids learn too much phony stuff in those acting schools. Sometimes it's impossible to unlearn them.
"As for your mother now, understand, Charlene, I don't want to hurt your feelings the reason your mother never got anywhere in films was simply because she couldn't act. So you see, anyone you met through her would be automatically prejudiced against you. You're really far better off meeting people on your own before they know you're her daughter. Then there won't be any preconceived ideas about your ability."
Charlene knew that what Hershey said was true. Her mother photographed like a living color dream and she was great in the hay, so if she'd had any talent she would have made it further than that awful B picture she was forcing on everyone at the house earlier.
"When can you arrange an interview?" Charlene asked.
Hershey immediately picked up the telephone and mumbled some numbers to the hotel operator. "You know his home phone number?"
"Of course," he told her, winking. Then, "Is Mr. Rotheimer in?" he said into the mouthpiece. "Tell him it's ol' Hershey."
A minute later, "Yeah, hi, Dave... No, I'm leaving tomorrow. You know these buying trips, not a minute to myself. I'll try to see you next time I'm in Los Angeles. Just a minute... "Get me a pencil and pad from that desk, baby... " Charlene jumped in compliance.
"Okay, Dave, I got that. And listen, kiddo, speaking about prime merchandise, I got the snuggliest armful of natural beauty you ever saw right here, right now. She's a model in town, only sixteen, up for a hair commercial next week. Nobody's seen her yet. Thought I'd give you first shot at it might turn into a real discovery... No, no acting schools, either... Charlene Kane... I'll tell her... Love to Becky, too." He placed the phone back in the cradle, took a deep breath to compensate for his depletion, and then looked at Charlene.
She now appeared as a young kitten hoping to be accepted into a new home.
"You're to phone his secretary, Monday, for an appointment." He tore a fresh piece of paper from the pad and scribbled some figures. "Here's the office number, baby," he said, handing it to her. "Ya hungry?"
"Starved," she answered, beaming.
"Well, I don't want to order dinner sent up because I want to show off my little doll." He grabbed her and suckled a breast for a light-hearted instant.
"But what am I going to wear, Hershey?" Her apprehension was quite understandable her gown by now had the appearance of a camel-driver's mufti, all the worse since Hershey's now-dried semen had cemented the wrinkles into place.
"You get yourself back into shape while I go downstairs. I saw something in one of the shop windows that'd look great on you."
After he'd gone and Charlene was busying herself, she discovered that she was bursting with happiness. What an odd outcome for a night which had begun so poorly. I've got the world by the tail. I'm finally getting a break.
She looked in the mirror. I've got the face as she ran her hands over her curves I've got the body she patted her pubis and I know how to use this little fortune between my legs. And the funny part of it is, I'm only doing what I like best. I get bonuses and presents and maybe I'll even be a big movie star and all in return for just doing what comes naturally.
If I've got ol' Hershey eating out of my hands... 7 can get others to do the same thing. Now I know what they mean by "pussy-whipped."
Why, he's even buying me a dress retail!
CHAPTER EIGHT
Charlene sat in Mr. Rotheimer's spacious outer office. An actor's agent sat across the room with a nervous young girl who appeared to be about Charlene's age. Trying for the same part, Charlene wondered. Seated near the reception desk on the other side of the room, Charlene recognized an old-time actress perched on the edge of her chair, obviously concerned.
It was so exciting all these things she dreamed about so long were actually happening to her! She remembered the first time she had been interviewed by Rotheimer, the feared King of Astro Studios. With a quick phone call and quicker questions he discovered she had won the hair commercial job. There had been only two others in contention also with long, silky blonde hair framing lovely faces but happily for Charlene, one spoke in a high squeaky voice and the other hammed up her gestures. The job was Charlene's, hands down, and as she had told her mother, she hadn't even had to go down on anyone. Sonja had replied that it was only a fluke and would never happen again. "Believe me, I know."
When Rotheimer found out about the hair commercial he immediately decided to see the rushes since the commercial was being filmed on his own studio lot. These rushes were to serve as a minor screen test. Had to cut corners nowadays this was modern, corporate-minded Hollywood, not the old money-flinging film-center it had once been.
The atmosphere, now, in Rotheimer's outer office, was the same as it had been that day when Charlene waited for her first interview with him tense, auspicious, a sense of majestic things in the offing. She had felt nearly panic-stricken that first time everyone conversing in hushed tones, those same hushed tones reverberating as if the room were a cathedral, and each person present acting properly sycophantic, as if to say that Mr. Rotheimer deservedly strode a cloud one level higher than God's own.
She had found him both brusque and courteous that first interview not at all as she had expected. Stories of the "ogre Rotheimer" were well-known, just as were similar tales about all the other producers in Crazy-Town.
His eagle eyes had linked into her own and stayed there. No roving at all. No non-business hints. Just those eyes. And, more than once, she had to turn away and break the link.
Thank God, she had thought, that Sonja was working and couldn't accompany her. What Hershey had said earlier was more than correct, and Sonja would have taken over and babbled on and given an entirely wrong impression of Charlene, the girl, the model, the aspiring actress.
Rotheimer had pressed her. "You're pretty young to be out working on your own, aren't you? I presume you're through school?"
"Yes, Mr. Rotheimer. I was skipped a half a grade when I was in elementary school, then, a couple of years ago, all the L.A. schools were put on a year basis. All the mid-year students had to go either forward or backward. I couldn't see going backward, so I purposely gained another half-year."
"Smart girl," he had said, drilling her again with his laser eyes. "You know, you're really going to have to be good. Because if I hire you, we'll have to have a welfare worker on the set and they're a pain in the ass. It'd be a lot easier to get a young-looking eighteen-year-old."
Charlene only nodded.
And it turned out that nod had been the right thing; Hershey phoned her long-distance to find out how the interview had gone, and told her then that Rotheimer detested anyone, broads in particular, commenting on anything but a direct question. Again, thank God Sonja hadn't been there she would have carried on about this and that, about how it would be "worth it" to him. Sonja might have even hinted at a "threesome."
Too, Rotheimer had liked her portfolio of pictures.
Getting those done in time for the hair commercial interview had been a story in itself. Saturday, after leaving Hershey at the airport, she had returned home to find a party again either the old one renewed, or a new one with many old faces.
"Come and join us, Charly," Sonja implored.
Looking past her mother, Charlene could see Jon and Lola on the living room floor performing a sixty-nine, and she felt a sudden pang of jealousy she hadn't even remotely imagined Jon with anyone but Sonja or herself.
And then Nicky walked up to her, stark naked, and squeezed her curved buttocks. "Come on, cutie, I've just been aching to fuck you."
Ignoring Nicky, turning to her mother, she said, "I can't, Mom. Don't you remember? I've got to get pictures taken, and you know how hard it is to get an appointment with a decent photographer on a Saturday."
"Who are you going to?" Sonja asked, but Charlene barely heard her. Sonja's hair was hanging stringlike around her colorless face. She had excessively dark shadows under her eyes, and Charlene thought that she did indeed look fucked out. She couldn't help thinking that Sonja had better cut down on the booze and get more sleep. Otherwise there was no way for her to keep looking ten years younger than her true age.
"Who is the photographer, Charlene?" Sonja repeated.
"Oh, sorry. Jerome Carey."
"Good. He's superb." And then, apparently aware that Charlene would not be joining them, Sonja drifted back to her party.
Charlene gathered up half her wardrobe so she would have changes to make her look sweet, sexy, outdoorsy, sophisticated, bitchy, whatever. Then, after she had arrived at the studio with armloads of apparel, Jerome Carey had taken the majority of the photos either in a bikini or nothing.
No wonder he was famous for achieving such sensuous photographic expressions. She never would forget how the lanky even gawky bespectacled young man had sexually stimulated her by tying a brief scarf around her pubis for a front view shot. He said he wanted something even briefer than a bikini bottom, just enough to cover the hair. Then, very innocently, he said, "I don't know what to do with the corners."
Before Charlene could say or do anything, she felt him poking the ends into her vagina. She had felt a breathtaking thrill, but before anything else could happen, he quickly finished posing her, smoothed the scarf and snapped the photo. Then he kept rearranging her in different poses, each time straightening the scarf poking the little corners in tightly. By the time he was on the fifth photo she had a wanton expression that clearly said, "Fuck me. Please." (That, understandably, had been the photo that caught Rotheimer's eye during the first interview.) After the last of the photos had been taken, Jerome Carey said, "Okay, Charlene. That'll about wrap it up." She collapsed against the fur-covered cushions.
He came to her and removed the scarf, being careful not to touch the soppy corners, and tossed it into the dirty wash container. Charlene remained as she was, nude, supine, as he began putting his equipment away. Finally, she asked, "Doesn't any of this ever turn you on?"
"All in a day's work," he answered. Charlene couldn't determine just how serious he was. But she would find out.
"How about now?" Her voice was husky.
He peered at her over his glasses. "You mean you'd let me ball you?" His tone was unbelieving.
"If you don't get that big cock in me right now, I'm going to scream," she replied hoarsely.
Jerome Carey may have been a typically preoccupied artist, but it hadn't taken him long to get down to business with Charlene. Almost as if in a trance, the rangy bespectacled photographer moved toward Charlene. It was almost as if he was being drawn tropistically as a moth into a flame toward something he did not really understand or believe. Charlene, also beyond understanding this peculiar situation, wasn't sure now she wanted to accept this young man, but was herself somewhat beyond control. Both of them were by now victors who felt akin to victims. There was no way to avoid what was about to happen, despite the new reluctances.
"Are you sure you want to?" His voice seemed to rasp.
"I... I don't know. Don't you?"
"It's all so hard to believe... I don't know what I... " Suddenly, Charlene's mind cleared and all she knew for sure was that she was turned on, on, on. "Come here, Goddamnit," she commanded, "and let me get those tight jeans off you."
He moved to her, much as if she were a mother to be obeyed. When he was within arm's length she reached up impatiently and tugged him the rest of the way, at the same time wresting the jean buttons from the eyelets, pulling open the fly completely in a few wrist motions, exposing one of the most imposing staffs she had ever seen. Soft, it resembled a length of heavy-duty fire hose, and it wasn't staying soft.
"My God," Charlene moaned to herself. "What am I supposed to do with this thing?"
Answering herself, she leaned forward and pulled the mammoth penis toward her mouth, tilting her chin upward to meet it. But as it was pulled closer to her lips, she realized that there was no possibility of her actually encompassing the head of it with her little-girl-sized mouth. Sonja, herself, wouldn't have been able to do more than snuggle up to it as one might a cushion, and perhaps love it with a laving of the tongue...
Which was also Charlene's solution. Tilting her head at a severe angle and pulling Jerome Carey's equipment upward, she was able to apply some delicate tongue-strokes to his balls, which strokes she shortly projected outward toward the tip of the cock, on the underside.
"Oh, Jesus... sweet Jesus," Carey breathed.
Why the hell am I doing this?
Charlene thought to herself as she licked more and more. I'll certainly never get it in my mouth. Why the hell don't I just jack him off and hurry home? Maybe Jon will be there.
And then a funny thing happened. The hitherto diffident and retreating Jerome Carey came alive sure of himself.
"Lie back down, Charlene," he said, a new note of command in his voice. "Oh, honey, I don't know if... "
"You told me to get my cock in you. Well, I intend to do just that."
And then, before she was able to think, reply or resist, she found herself on her back with the insistent body of the photographer prying between her legs. Next she felt the imposing log certainly not a cushion insinuating itself into her vulva. And then she felt force actual force near-hurtful force, as the hot and rigid penis began making its way into her oily channel. The lubrication helped a little but... And then she was aware that she had been effectively entered. Not to the hilt, perhaps for the girth seemed too great that but enough so that she could feel a heavy pressure exerting itself far into her abdomen. It was painful, but it was also very heady stuff, and Charlene soon found herself throwing aside the pain sensations, accepting the idea of pure bull-like sex.
And then, soon after Charlene had accepted the idea of such a physical assaulting of her youngish newly sexual body, it ended. There was a shuddering tremor which rumbled through Carey's whole body, and she experienced a hot gushing torrent which washed her insides for a second before re-cascading in the opposite direction, syringing out between his plunger and her tight vaginal lips and onto the cushions.
Charlene didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
She wondered now how he had ever managed to fuck her with that oversized cock of his, and now in retrospect could only recall his saying over and over, "I can't believe I could get so lucky as to ball you."
As she drove home afterward, she hoped no one would be there, because, for the first time since her sex life had begun, her vagina was really sore. However, she was anything but unhappy. In fact, she felt marvelous. Jerome had said they might be able to work out something that he was sure he could sell some of her photos. So she'd probably end up with a model's wage besides all the free photos. How lucky since he charged a fortune for his work. So again she had become a double beneficiary. If, that is, she could ever learn to handle that massive cock!
"Miss Kane, you may go in now," Rotheimer's secretary repeated, her first words having failed to raise Charlene from her reverie.
"Oh! Sorry. I guess I was daydreaming." Charlene rose to walk into the inner sanctum and could not help but notice the pure resentfulness on the faces of the agent, the client, and the older actress, all of whom had been waiting longer than she.
Please God, be good to me, she prayed as she entered the King's private office. This time she wore a short blue pinafore, very big in the early fall fashions and perfect for the proposed part. Besides, she had worn a long dress the first time, so now it seemed fitting for Rotheimer to have a better view of her long, sexy legs.
"Well, miss," he said as she entered, "you come across very nicely on the big screen. If you can read the part the way you look the part, you're in." He handed her a script. "Go over in the corner and look at this."
Charlene was speechless, which was quite all rightshe was expected to say nothing. With an aplomb which completely concealed her nervousness, she accepted the script and curled up in a chair in the far corner to read it. Quickly absorbed in the storywhich was good she was nevertheless vaguely aware of other people coming in, sitting down, chatting a bit, and then being dismissed.
"All right, Charlene," Rotheimer said at length, "bring the script here."
He found the place he wanted and told her to read. She read one line.
"No! No! Charlene, see this photo?"
He had her portfolio in front of him and was pointing to sensuous picture that had said, "Fuck me. Please."
"This girl is wanton. She wants to be fucked. I know you can do it because it's written all over your face in this photo. Maybe you're a method actress. We'll try. Come here. No, over on my side of the desk." He pulled her down on his lap, an act which startled her. He had earlier seemed so businesslike. Even when he said, "Fucked," it had a "board report" tone to it.
"You're a pretty little thing," he said, sliding his hand up under her skirt to the edge of her panties.
This situation electrified Charlene. Although this "King" hardly appealed to her, she became creamy with expectation. She was apprehensive of reacting the wrong way, so she just sat there quietly letting his finger poke inside her panty leg, through her tendrilly wisps of pubic hair, over her excited clitoris and into her wet vagina. She was near to reaching a shattering orgasm when he stopped abruptly and sat her on the floor between his legs. Deftly he pulled down his zipper and took out his not-quite-hard cock.
Charlene was on the floor, under Rotheimer's large desk, face to face with this very important, very regal, semi-hard penis. She knew what she must do the studio head expected some head. There was no doubt about that. And it had better be good. She took his penis carefully between her fingers and let her tongue slowly lick the tip and all the sides, then she gradually covered it with her warm mouth and swirled her tongue.
"No, no, Charlene! Not like that!"
The surprised girl raised her head, nearly hitting it on the underside of the heavy oak desk-framing. "No?" she repeated, surprise evident in her voice.
"My dear, if I may be so bold, how long have you been doing that?"
"Why, not long at all, Mr. Rotheimer."
"And may I inquire where you learned your technique?"
Charlene recalled how Hershey had reacted when she had told him the truth. This time she would be more convincing. "Well, you may not believe this, Mr. Rotheimer, but my mother taught me the fundamentals. I practice on her boyfriend a lot."
Rotheimer seemed unshaken by this information. "Well, if that's the case, I'd say your mother wasn't nearly the expert she thinks she is. You've got a lot of the ideas down okay, but you don't have any well-developed sense of touch or response."
"I don't?" she inquired incredulously.
"No... but I think you could, if you tried. And, of course, if you had a good teacher."
"Oh, yes, Mr. Rotheimer. I do want to be good and everyone knows how hard I'm willing to work to learn something."
Again, Rotheimer proved himself to be a man of decision. He looked at his watch, much as if to say they might be tied up for quite some time. Charlene could tell that he was about to expound at length about this act which was apparently important to him. She rearranged herself on the floor under the desk so that she would be more comfortable, but would still be essentially in the same position he had placed her just in case he turned out to be sensitive about such things.
Rotheimer first spoke into the intercom. "Miss Stern, I don't want to be disturbed for now. I'll let you know."
The secretary acknowledged this, and then Rotheimer turned to Charlene.
"Charlene, you seem to have overcome the first hurdle that is, you accept fellatio as a fact of life. You apparently realize that there's nothing new about it, nothing bad about it. You've got the hardest part of it licked." He paused to smile at himself, then went on, "So now it shouldn't be any problem for you to go on into the mechanics of the thing."
"Sure, go ahead. I'm game."
"All right, Charlene, but I hate to ever waste my breath... so if I'm going to give it my all, you must promise to do the same thing. You must listen hard."
"Agreed," she answered quickly.
"Okay. Now first let me tell you that sucking a cock seems like a simple enough thing on the surface you take a cock, pop it into your mouth and start sucking on it as if it were a peppermint stick. Which isn't too far off-base, unless you happen to believe, as I hope you do, that anything worth doing at all is worth doing well. As a matter of fact, plain old fucking would profit a lot from the same kind of thinking. I can't begin to tell you how many times I've heard a woman complain about something like, 'He sticks it in and rattles it around just as if he were stirring soup with a wooden spoon.' Now isn't that a hell of a way for someone to think about something as beautiful as fucking?"
"That's terrible."
"Good. We're of a mind. Now, on to cocksucking. It's my belief that before you can do a good job on one, you have to first understand what a cock really is physiologically, that is."
"I think I know what a cock is."
"We'll see about that. Do you know what an 'accordion' cock is?
"A what?"
"That's what I thought. So you'd better let me start at the beginning." Rotheimer paused to pour a glass of water from his desk carafe, and then began. "The size, Charlene, and particularly the shape of a man's cock has a great deal to do with the way a girl should fellate it. For example, if it curves up like a cutlass when hard, the only lady who would be able to accommodate it frontally would be one who was afflicted with a cleft palate. By frontally I mean the classic sucker-kneeling, suckee-standing position. So obviously this type of instrument has to be approached in a prone position so that the curvature of the penis matches the natural curvature of the soft palate leading to the esophagus that's the throat; and this will result in a mutual meeting in the standard 'sixty-nine' position."
"Oh! I know what that is, Mr. Rotheimer."
"I'll bet you do. Anyway, let me go on. The average prick curves neither up, down, nor markedly sideways, and these straight ones are really the joy of the ladies I know who suck a lot of cock and thus are discriminating. The size should be moderate and the shape consistent, and the glans should be neither bulbous nor too small, and, as an optimum, let's stipulate that the shaft should be uniformly cylindrical with just about the same diameter from tip to root."
"My goodness, Mr. Rotheimer, you're starting to sound like a college professor."
"No harm in that, my dear, provided I don't lose you. That isn't happening, is it?"
"Oh, no, I understand you. Go on."
"Yes, yes... where was I? Oh, yes. I was about to tell you something about the consistency of men's pricks. Remember, I asked you if you knew what an accordion cock was, and you didn't know?"
"Yes."
"Now, we're down to that. Charlene, there are two basic types of cocks, and each gives a misleading appearance. There is, first, the 'half-hard' or 'hanging' penis which makes a striking appearance when in its natural state and leads the fellatrice to believe she's in for quite a battle with it. The hidden flaw in this machinery is that it doesn't get much larger it might increase in size, say, from five inches to six nor does it get appreciably harder. It retains a kind of India-rubber consistency, even at its hardest."
"I don't think I've ever seen one of those."
"You will as you start to circulate a bit. Now let me tell you about the other much more common type of cock. It is the 'accordion cock' I was mentioning earlier sometimes it's referred to as the surprise package. It looks quite small when the bearer is unexcited, sometimes appearing to be little more than a swelling on the groin. It is, when fully flaccid, literally withdrawn. It would appear this is not the most desired type of prick for a man to have, yet this insufficient member often erupts upon excitement into a rather formidable instrument of many times its original size and a much greater hardness than the 'half-hard' type. Sometimes these cocks can provide a mouthful like you wouldn't believe."
"That's the kind I'm used to, I guess," put in Charlene, who was now beginning to wonder if the whole day would be devoted to this sort of thing. She was dying of curiosity to find out what Rotheimer had to say about the script and the part, and exactly what it was that sexy photograph of her had to do with it all, but she knew better than to interrupt the "King." She thought for a moment to say or ask something that might be more pertinent to the business at hand, but quickly discarded the idea.
"You must understand, then, Charlene, that appearances deceive and that a girl cannot really predict what nature of work she has at hand until she actually assumes the project."
"All right, Mr. Rotheimer. I promise I won't make any premature judgments I'll make up my mind only after I'm into the thing."
"Good girl. Now then, I think I should tell you that the best or ideal cock for purposes of sucking is one that is just less than fully hard. To be expertly treated, it should have some resiliency and give. Recall, the mouth is not like a vagina; it has three surfaces which must be kept out of contact with the penis or, at least, extended contact. These are the teeth, the palate, and the under jaw structure since they are all hard surfaces. The sought-for contact, of course, requires manipulation and know-how, and it can really be gained only from a lot of experience."
"Really, Mr. Rotheimer! I know that much. I've never been accused of biting or scraping. Mom isn't exactly stupid in that department, you know." And then realizing she might have been too forceful in her outburst, she added, "I'm sorry I didn't mean to interrupt."
"I don't blame you, if you think you're correct. But, to be perfectly honest with you, Charlene, I'm certain that I felt your teeth scraping around the head of my cock when you were starting on me."
"Really?"
"Yes, really. That's one reason why I'm going into all of this. Now, may I go on?"
"Certainly." Charlene resumed her sitting position.
"The idea is for the fellatrice to capture in the cavity of her mouth bounded only by lips, inner cheeks and upper throat a certain vacuum. This is done by controlling the breath. When the cock enters, this trapped pressure acts as a pump, as the penis moves back and forth. The cheeks now must maintain a certain flexible consistency so that an exciting pressure is sustained. The fellatrice must also sustain a certain amount of resistance to both the pushing forward of the penis and the moving backward so that, for example, were it to be withdrawn unexpectedly, there would be a kind of soft, wet pop. It's precisely the kind of sliding with-and-against pressure that one experiences when he tries to free the cork from a bottle of champagne. One can twist this way and that, pull it, push it, all within a small area and fairly easily, but it becomes more difficult as you reach the mouth of the bottle. Then all of a sudden, pop!
"That, essentially, is the proper method of fellating a cock. There are variations, of course, and I have devoted very little time to the topic of preparation. For one thing, preparation seems to be quite variable for that matter, it really should not require any discussion. It is a sad commentary on human sexuality for us to need to spell it out. And yet, the world seems heavily populated with people who understand little, if anything about the 'warm up.' "
"You mean like when a guy feels me up and works his finger up there?"
"Well, yes, but you've got to understand that it works two ways."
"The guys I know all seem super-ready all the time."
"It's not that simple, Charlene. Just as low speech, tenderness, whispering, touches and caresses are all part of the preparations for fucking, so are touches and tickles and kissing and licking part of the preparation for fellatio. First of all, kissing and licking lubricates the shaft with spittle, excites the person about to be sucked off principally since it gives him a nice hardon, and, believe it or not, it produces a corresponding excitement in the lady about to do the sucking."
"Oh, yes, I know that. The minute I start licking around a guy's balls, even, I start to get wet."
"Certainly you do. That's because the fellatrice, quite beyond her conscious knowledge, prepares herself by means of this type of reflex excitement to mentally accept the length of the cock deep into her throat without discomfort or nausea. It is a matter of continuing surprise to me that such dainty mouth, narrow throats, and thin, tight lips can provide such pleasure and can be pumped so forcefully and penetratingly by the extremely large cocks which are exactly what such girls seem to always seek out. Not only that, these delicate little flowers of girls seem to get great satisfaction even ecstasy out of tackling these whoppers. But, really, when you stop to think about it, the whole thing's simple. The girls were prepared for it. They prepared themselves. The whole act was destined for success, from the outset."
"I understand what you're saying, Mr. Rotheimer, but that makes it only that much more difficult to understand something else."
"What's that, my dear?"
"There wasn't any warm up involved when you just threw me under the desk and asked for a blow-job.
Why did you do that?"
"Well, Charlene, sometimes my schedule... "
"In other words, don't do as you do, do as you say."
Rotheimer permitted a small laugh. "Yes, I suppose you could say that. But I promise you one thing, young lady it won't happen again like that."
"Oh, I didn't mind I just thought I'd mention it because I didn't understand it."
"Fair enough. Anyway, right in line with what we're talking about, let me emphasize that it's just no good taking someone on cold and that goes for both parties, and for all sexual practices. Both parties have to be properly warmed up, properly aroused, in order to extract the maximum of pleasure from whatever it is one chooses to do. Preliminaries are worth the time they take, because sexual activity is not a matter for one person only, but for two, and the difficulties, the gasping, the gagging, the premature ejaculations, the pre-orgasmic fumbling and the post-orgasmic shame are all the result of improper preparation. In one sense, all sexual acts are the same in that you must really want to do them before you can ever really do them well. The only acceptable 'high' identification with the act must be so great that at the height of pleasure the act must be a kind of Zen self-induced automatic response you really shouldn't be able to tell where the edges of your body leave off and your partner's begin."
"Oh, yes, that's the way I want it to be with me, every time," Charlene sighed. "That would be so beautiful."
Now it seemed that Rotheimer was himself caught up in the spirit of what he was saying. Even as he finished this last, his hand strayed downward and began a light feathery massage of his penis, which was still less than erect, but growing.
"Now, then, do you think you can perform a more thoughtful and attentive job this time?"
"Well, I'm sure willing to try, Mr. Rotheimer."
"Go ahead, then, but try to remember all that I've told you, and try very hard to put your whole being into the act. Think of my cock as a precious flower that is just beginning to bloom, and you are going to caress each petal until it is strong and ready."
This time it was a transformed Charlene who addressed herself to Rotheimer's penis. First she decided she wasn't content to just have his cock peeking through the fly of his pants. She lifted his buttocks a bit with the palms of her hands and then urged his trousers down until she had a workable freedom. His heavy scrotal sac was now fully visible, and his half-hard penis lay atop the two balls, lazily but proudly.
Charlene placed the upturned palm of each hand under a thigh and gently forced the legs apart and a bit upward, exposing the buttocks and the area beneath the balls. Slowly she showed her affection for Rotheimer's equipment by gently nuzzling her nose into the curling, patchy, wispy hairs that bushed about his genitals. Then she started a light blowing of warm breath into those same hairs, while at the same time making an effort to spread apart the legs even farther, her hands on his inner thighs, working their way upward toward the balls. Her touches now were delicate, flicking caresses feathery, tapping feels ten teasing fingers on those sensitive balls. Her breath was coming and going more insistently. She enjoyed exploring all the way to the bridge of the anus with lightly drawn sharp fingernails across the rigid puckering and all the while the cock was unattended, waiting, supreme.
"Oh, yes, baby, the asshole... strum it like a guitar."
She smiled to herself, but was not distracted.
Next she began to hook her elbows beneath his knees so as to completely spread-eagle him and gain total freedom of access, but at this point Rotheimer interrupted her. She heard him speak into the intercom and instruct his secretary to come into the office, and even as he spoke his eyes peered down upon her and said, Don't you stop for one second.
My, God, Charlene thought, suppose the secretary sees me! But she kept sucking as she thought. Of course, there's a large chair in front of the desk which should serve to hide me, but even so my God! She heard the secretary enter the office and quietly close the door even as she continued sucking on the now-hard cock. Won't she wonder, Charlene considered, where I've disappeared to?
"Sit down, Miss Stern." she heard Rotheimer say. A rustle of skirts told her that Miss Stern had indeed placed herself in a chair at the side of the desk, but Charlene refused to allow herself to be distracted from this highly important man who obviously considered cocksucking to be a highly important art form. She kept on with her work.
Rotheimer, by the sound of things up topside, was leafing through some papers, and after some preliminary instructions to Miss Stern very slowly dictated a letter. Charlene could feel a gradual growth in Rotheimer's cock as it gained new degrees of hardness as if ready to burst.
With what seemed deliberate timing, he finished the last words of the letter with a sigh which signaled the first spurt of semen which became a torrent into her mouth. She tried to swallow it quietly, since Miss Stern was now reading the letter back to her employer.
He, in turn, kept orgasming with lesser and lesser spurts all the while the letter was being read, and managed to emit a last few drops even as Miss Stern was repeating the address. It seemed, without exaggeration, that he had extended his active orgasm for a full two minutes to Charlene an unbelievable performance. Then, as the secretary left the office, Charlene continued busying herself as she licked the softening sixty-year-old manhood clean. If Miss Stern had noticed anything she did not let on.
"You can come up now," Rotheimer said, reaching far down and grabbing Charlene by the crotch to help her. As he stuck his finger into her wetness, he said, "You're not a journeyman cocksucker yet, little girl. But you're certainly coming along fine. Let's hope your acting does as well." Then he chose a page from the script and said, "Now, read this."
Suddenly Charlene found herself trembling with a mixture of excitement and fear. But she managed to read the line.
"That was just fine, young lady! Just fine." He was exuberant. As he stood to pull his pants up, he added, "I'm going to make an actress out of you mark my word."
Watching him fumble with his trousers, Charlene jumped forward saying, "Let me!" She knelt before him and pulled his trousers back into place, but not before taking the now-flaccid penis gently in her hands and placing a full kiss on its tip.
Rotheimer continued, "Take the script home and get into the part. You'll receive your contract in the mail. It'll give the dates of your commitment. You'll get a call next week for wardrobe fittings. Do you have an agent?"
Charlene was flabbergasted at the speed with which everything was happening. "No," she answered.
"On the way out, ask Miss Stern for a list of reputable agents. You'll eventually need one for negotiations. But, for God's sake, don't hand that contract over to a relative of friend to handle for you. I won't tolerate amateurs."
"Oh, yes I mean no, Mr. Rotheimer. I just don't know how to thank you for the part."
"I'll let you know how. And when. Goodbye for now."
"Goodbye," she said. "And thanks again."
Then Charlene floated out the door, right past Miss Stern, not even really aware there was such a person. Only when she was nearly out of the office did she remember about obtaining a list of agents from the secretary. She reversed her field just long enough to get the information, somehow managing to avoid Miss Stern's eyes.
Charlene had mixed emotions: elation over getting the part and depression over being sexually frustrated. As she walked to her car, which was parked in the "special permission" lot, she passed attractive young men dressed in Army uniforms returning from lunch. She felt the recent lack of sexual fulfillment surge through her. She felt the walls of her vagina harden and the sopping wet lubrication slopping against the crotch of her panties. Talk about men getting nut aches, she thought. It can't be worse than the ache I feel. Oh, to get one of those uniformed sex symbols behind a flat for ten minutes!
Think about the part! Think about the part!
At home, Sonja was waiting anxiously for news, wishing fervently that her daughter had the part more fervently, it seemed, than she had ever wished on her own behalf. She had just walked to the window for the twentieth time when she saw the familiar sports care drive up. She watched carefully for telltale signs as Charlene got out of the car, smoothed her skirt, and began walking toward the house. My God! Her daughter didn't even seem to be elated, much less bursting with song, as Sonja would have expected. Oh, God, didn't she get it? She had planned on running to the door upon seeing the happy child and throwing her arms around her, and then they would laugh and hug each other and marvel at how great her future would be. Charlene the bright star Sonja should have been... Sonja, finally at the top through Charlene... Sonja and Charlene one.
She stood frozen as Charlene entered the house.
"Mother," she heard Charlene call.
"Here I am, dear," Sonja heard herself say. Her voice was even, steady, without emotion.
Charlene stood at the living room archway, her face impassive.
"Charlene, there'll be other parts... " Sonja began.
Charlene laughed. "Mother, I got the part!" A smile broke on her face.
Sonja rushed to hug her daughter. Relief made her voice crack. "Baby, how could you torture me like this?"
"I didn't mean to mislead you, Mom. I guess my mind was just somewhere else."
"Well, you sure looked like death warmed over, walking from your car."
"Actually, I was thinking about the part."
"I knew you'd get that part, baby nothing can stop you now. So for Christ's sake, loosen up and be happy. You should be singing from the clouds."
Charlene shrugged and flopped on the green velvet couch. "I am happy, Mom, about the part. But I'm confused about something else."
In a few minutes, Sonja had the story from start to finish of Charlene's experience in Rotheimer's office. At the conclusion, Sonja said, "Unless you've left something out, I still don't know what the confusion could be. You're sitting on top of the world, baby."
"Oh, Mom, can't you understand? I felt so funny. After all that instruction, and then going down on him, and then him sticking his finger up my panties again, I thought he was going to make love to me. But no. He sent me away so hot I could have fucked the doorknob on the way out."
Sonja burst out into a hearty laugh. "Oh, baby! Now, tell me, do you really want that old man to put his cock into you? Or maybe go down on you? What did you expect him to do?
"Oh, I don't know. Even Hershey took care of me in return."
"Not the first night. I remember how you came home and practically tore Jon from my bed."
Charlene acknowledged the memory. "Yes, but he made an attempt. He just wasn't any good. You don't understand. I feel... " She broke off. Then indignantly she added, "Imagine having his secretary in there the entire time I was sucking him off!"
Sonja laughed. "People have all kinds of strange hang-ups. That's probably the only way he can get his jollies."
"Mother, there's only one way I can put it. I felt degraded."
Sonja wasn't laughing now. She became very serious and very firm. "Charlene, I'm not going to see you blow this whole, new, beautiful career why, everything's laid out before you, just for the taking. Stop this romantic bit of nonsense. You weren't degraded. You were playing the game. And if you want to win the game you have to be smarter than the next guy. It's not all luck. You have to plan your moves well and know when to play them."
"But is it all really just a game, Mom?"
Sonja stared at her daughter. Then she quietly said, "Somebody once said, 'All's fair in love and war.'" Still Charlene didn't seem to snap out of it. Finally Sonja said, "It's all happened too fast. And you've probably gotten everything too easily. I suppose there is something to the old saying that no sensation is worth much unless you've known its opposite."
"Opposite?"
"Yes, dear. You know peace only means something to someone who's known war; freedom has real meaning only after one has lost it. Well, success doesn't mean much to you right now simply because you don't know anything about failure."
Charlene eyed her mother curiously. "Mom, that's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard you say. You're really concerned about me, aren't you?"
Sonja was forced to swallow to keep her voice from cracking. Then she smiled. "Don't be so serious, darling."
Charlene studied her mother. Then she answered, "Okay, Mom."
The older woman savored the moment, and then, as quickly as she had softened, she reverted to her old self.
"Go have a nice swim. Jon will be home from his tennis match soon. After a couple of hours with him, the world will look rosy again."
CHAPTER NINE
The days had flown by in a feverish whirl of wardrobe fittings, wardrobe stills, publicity stills, publicity interviews, and cast readings with the director of The Best of Nothing. Now, two weeks later, the Great Day had arrived. Charlene had hardly slept the night before not only had the excitement mounted to a screaming crescendo, she had found herself worrying about the clock not going off at six A.M., even though the telephone service would also ring her at that time. She just wasn't used to rising at such an ungodly hour. But the make-up call was at seven so as to have her on the set at nine. Not that she would be in makeup all that time. No, after her face was completed by a studio expert, the hairdresser would grab her, then the wardrobe lady. Next, she would walk from her dressing room out onto the sound stage a facial tissue tucked in at the neck to protect her dress from the pan-stick and to the edge of the set where her specially emblazoned canvas chair awaited her. She could, of course, wait in her dressing room for the assistant director's call, but she was far too excited to sit in there alone; besides, she wanted to watch the shooting of other scenes.
As she showered and dressed, her mind was buzzing so much had happened recently, she could hardly put it all in place. For instance, Sonja, who never got out of bed in the morning unless forced to do so by a job of her own, had earlier this day prepared breakfast for Charlene and the sun wasn't even up yet! Charlene had complained that she couldn't stomach anything at such an uncivilized hour, but Sonja had insisted. And besides, the "ex-actress" explained, "We're troupers now and I just had to wish you luck on your first day!" Charlene had arranged a pass for her mother to come onto the lot for lunch and watch a little of the shooting, but Rotheimer had strictly forbidden Sonja's "hanging around" afterward. He said that mothers on the set always bottled up his young actresses. It was bad enough that a welfare worker would be required.
"Good luck, baby," Sonja said, giving Charlene a hug at the door. "I know you'll be great. See you for lunch."
"Okay, Mom. And thanks."
"Jon said to give you a kiss for good luck, too. You know him, he can't get up unless he has a job to get to himself."
"I know. He wished me luck last night." Charlene remembered how he had massaged her and then given her the "special Jon treatment," but still she hadn't slept well. She hoped the make-up man would be able to erase any shadows from her eyes. She recalled how she had arranged for Jon to get a small part in the film which would come up in a week or two, a glorified bit, really. She also recalled, with a shudder, how she had swung that deal.
But now, as she drove down and around the curves of Laurel Canyon to the studio, she flipped her mind back even further to the day she had signed the contract. Hershey had called her, was thrilled for her, then furious when he found out she had a clause in her contract that said she could not fly unless it was job-related for the duration of the shooting.
"What the hell is this?" he had shouted long distance, "I get you the introduction to Dave and now you can't even fly up to see me?"
"I'm sorry, Hershey. I didn't write the contract."
"Why'd you sign it?"
"You mean you'd have me give up the part if they wouldn't let me fly?"
"Well... Goddamnit, you wouldn't even have the part if I hadn't sent you to Dave."
"Anyway, Hershey, my agent read the contract and asked for changes on what he thought was important. And he didn't even mention that."
"Your agent! What the fuck do you need an agent for?"
"To look out for my interests."
"Bull!"
In truth, of course, Charlene was delighted with that clause. She had no desire to fly to Hershey's home town and be holed up in some out-of-the-way motel. In fact, she had no desire to see him again, at all. She certainly had no desire for him. She didn't have to worry about "ole Hershey" or his account any more.
"Besides, Hershey," she had continued, "they're keeping me so busy with publicity trying to build up a public image before the film is released that they're fixing me up with dates for previews and night clubs on the weekends."
That was when Hershey had exploded. "God-damnit! My girl! Not only can't you come visit me for one lousy weekend, but they're fixing you up with every Don Juan in Hollywood!"
"Come on, Hershey," Charlene said sweetly, although she felt like telling him to shove it up his ass, "you've got a wife and family. I'm only sixteen. I'm not ready to be anybody's mistress." Sonja had always cautioned her to hold her tongue no matter how difficult it was, because in this business you never knew who might knife you in the back. Although it was doubtful Hershey could do her any harm at this point, it was senseless to make an unnecessary enemy.
"Well, wait till I tell my dear friend Dave what I think of him!"
Charlene knew Rotheimer would laugh Hershey off, but he'd never give in he'd made that clear. Of course, he would go to great lengths to make it up to Hershey in other ways. Rotheimer had indicated quite clearly that he was very interested in his young find, and definitely did not want her public image to be that of courtesan to an older man. He had, indeed, gone out of his way arranging dates for Charlene dates with budding eighteen and nineteen-year-old studio stallions.
Of course, that public image hadn't interfered with what went on in the privacy of his office under his desk.
For that matter, Hershey wasn't the only one who was annoyed. Sid Morris had suffered near-apoplexy when he discovered Charlene would still be working on the film when he would be needing her for the holiday showing.
"Half the samples have been fitted on you, Charlene! More than that, even," he thundered. "I'm a perfect size ten, Mr. M. I'm sure an agency can find another model for you."
"No one else has your great tits and cute ass," he moaned. "And I mean, literally no one!" Charlene couldn't conceal a smile in return for the ill-humored compliment. "I'm sorry, Mr. M., but you wouldn't really expect me to give up a movie career to model for Hollywood Sun-wear, would you?"
"Well... I guess not, but Goddamnit, it was Hershfield who got you in, and it was through me you met him."
Charlene thought it was ironic how men would invariably sell a girl on the idea of playing along because they could do them some good. And then when it really did happen, they seemed to think the girl might not grab at the opportunity. Mr. M. seemingly didn't realize that if she made a hit in the film she probably wouldn't ever model for anyone ever again. That being the case, Rotheimer would pick up her contract for more films and perhaps TV and maybe even the moon. And certainly a successful actress didn't model only now and then would she exchange her services in return for publicizing films.
Traffic was no problem not this early in the morning. Charlene tried to think of the day ahead of her her lines, the camera action, the wanton young girl she was playing but her mind would have none of it. Her mind, instead, seemed riveted on the day she had asked Rotheimer for a favor something she would never do again. No matter what. The recollection was just too distasteful.
"Could I ask a favor of you, Mr. Rotheimer?"
"Certainly, my dear. But you know, I'm sure, that one good favor deserves another."
"Of course, Mr. Rotheimer. Anyone knows that."
His usually severe face lit up at that. "Very well, Charlene. What can I do for you?"
"Do you know Jon Avon?" He nodded.
"He's a good friend of my mother's. And well, he'd be just perfect for the part of Dick... " Rotheimer tapped his cigar, then began to chew on it. "Yes, I guess Jon for that particular part would be perfect typecasting a bum playing the part of a bum. He can't act his way out of a paper box, you know."
Charlene first bristled, then flushed. She knew that Jon would be perfect for the part of the good-looking narcissistic young stud, if he would just act himself which was roughly equivalent to what Rotheimer had just said in overly pejorative terms. It was a small part only a cameo role, and both Jon and her mother had conducted a relentless campaign to induce her to speak up for Jon. "That's how parts are gotten," Sonja had said. "That puts you in ahead of the other guy who's waiting with his agent."
"Suppose I agree right now, Charlene?"
"Would you really do that, Mr. Rotheimer? Right now? Without an interview or anything? For me?"
"Why not? I know what he's done and I know he can do the part. Besides, it doesn't really matter. The director I'm signing could get a performance out of a dead man."
"Oh, Mr. Rotheimer, that's terrific," Charlene said, bouncing up from her chair. "I don't know how to thank you."
"Sit down, Charlene," Rotheimer replied, lighting up the cigar. Obediently, Charlene sat. Rotheimer's words had produced a fear a chill. Rotheimer leveled a hard stare at the young ingenue, and continued. "Have you ever made it with another female, Charlene?"
"What?"
"Have you had a woman make love to you?" Rotheimer's speech had now become quick and slick very salesmanlike. "I hear there's nothing quite like it. I know for a fact there's nothing quite like watching it."
Charlene felt sick. Was this the favor in return? She was quite prepared to go under his desk and play their little game, but making it with another girl? The idea revolted her.
"Oh, Mr. Rotheimer. No, I've never done that. I can't!"
"Can't, Charlene?" he smiled. "Or won't?" His face remained stony.
Charlene was on the verge of tears. "Let me go down on you, Mr. Rotheimer. That'll make you feel better." She raised from her chair.
"Stay where you are!" he ordered. Charlene slumped back, thoroughly subdued.
"You're a very fortunate young lady, Charlene. Do you know that?" He didn't wait for a reply. "You have beauty, brains, talent. But there are some poor females who have no beauty, barely adequate brains, and talent for only the pedestrian things in life. They lead very unglamorous, dull lives. You could bring a little glamour and happiness into such a life, Charlene. It's a great thing to have the power to give another human a little sunshine. Think about it, Charlene."
Charlene just sat, suddenly very small and pale. "May I go home and think about it, Mr. Rotheimer?"
Rotheimer laughed. "I'll give you two minutes to think about it. Right now. Poor Miss Stern has been pining away for you since the first day she saw you, Charlene."
Miss Stern!
Charlene could hardly believe what she heard. She now realized that Miss Stern knew what went on under Rotheimer's desk she had dropped her pencil once or twice, and when she went down to retrieve it had certainly noticed Charlene. But never had a word been said, and Miss Stern had maintained the fiction that she knew nothing. That was part of the game.
But Miss Stern actually wanting Charlene herself? That boggled the mind.
"She's a fine secretary," Rotheimer went on, as if talking to himself. "Quiet girl. Doesn't make friends easily. I feel she deserves a bonus now and then."
Charlene swallowed. She was to be the bonus? My God! But Charlene also knew that if she ran home to tell her mother that Jon wouldn't get the part because she had refused such a request, Sonja would be furious. Jon, too. They would also say it was just part of "the game."
"Just consider it business," Sonja had said when Charlene had complained about her under-the-desk-routine. "Don't get emotional about it," Sonja counseled. "Just do a good job. Remember, you're an actress now."
If she told Sonja, this very minute, about Rotheimer's proposal, her mother would probably say, "Well, if you're going to have a woman go down on you, at least you won't come home unsatisfied and upset, like you've been doing." In fact, Charlene remembered her mother telling her how, at a party, a girl had gone down on her and it had been terrific, but she didn't really dig women so had never let it happen again. Further, she couldn't reciprocate cocks were her thing. "But," Sonja had confided, "I suppose I must admit that it was a good sexual experience."
"Your two minutes are up, Charlene," Rotheimer was saying. "Of course, you can forget it, you know after all, there's no reason for you to pay for Jon Avon's favors. Or is there?" He pierced her with eyes that seemed to know.
The answer now seemed simple. If she refused, and Sonja discovered it, there'd never be peace again. Worse, Jon might not ever make love to her again. And he was the best. Those kid actors she had been forced to date had turned out like just so much cold dishwater they were just too concerned with themselves.
And, then, of course, there was her contract to be considered.
Charlene sat quietly, hands folded in her lap. Finally, in a low, conciliatory voice, she responded, "All right, Mr. Rotheimer."
"Good girl," he said quickly, displaying no emotion. He stubbed out his cigar in a huge ashtray. "You won't be sorry."
Into the intercom he said, "Miss Stern. Will you please come in? I have that special assignment you've been asking about."
Miss Stern appeared at the door immediately. She wore a droopy, high-necked, long-sleeved blouse, knee-covering skirt, clunky shoes, no make-up other than pale lipstick, her hair done up in an old-fashioned bun. She looked like her name.
She closed the door and locked it carefully behind her. Charlene vaguely wondered who was going to mind the store.
"Let your hair down, my dear," Rotheimer addressed his secretary. "You'll frighten the child."
Miss Stern's face broke into a rather pathetic half-smile. Then, when her dark hair fell about her shoulders, the improvement was immediate and startling.
She walked directly to Charlene and took the girl's hand. "Come over to the couch with me, Charlene." The words were spoken as half-command, half-request.
Charlene as if in a trance allowed herself to be led. Miss Stern began to undress her slowly, kissing her breasts as her blouse was removed, then caressing her thighs as her skirt dropped to the floor. Finally, Charlene stood in her bikini panties.
Charlene felt as if she would faint. She found herself trembling with both excitement and horror. Miss Stern's touch was delicate, sensitive, knowing. She carefully gave Charlene's body little thrills feeling her in just the right spots and with just the right touch as she undressed her. It was as if Miss Stern was a fine pianist, and the secret points of response on Charlene's body were the keys of the instrument.
"Look at her, Dave," Miss Stern said. "Isn't she lovely?"
"She certainly is," he agreed. Behind the desk, he had unzipped his fly and begun fondling his penis. "May I sit down?" Charlene heard her own voice croak her knees felt so weak she thought she might collapse.
"You may lie down, my sweet," Miss Stern replied, helping her onto the sofa.
Charlene was a trembling mass by now. She was spread out on the sofa with Miss Stern sitting on the edge of it next to her. She leaned over and kissed her full on the mouth. Her tongue demanded response. Her hands caressed Charlene's hard-nippled breasts, then one hand moved down into her wetness. Oh, yes, she was wet in spite of herself. She was a mixture of love and hate love of sex, hatred of herself for being wanton. As wanton, in fact, as the girl she was portraying in the film. Now she realized why she was, indeed, a "natural" for the part.
A shock ran through her entire being as she felt Miss Stern's tonguelike a butterfly on her clitoris. That was just a teaser, for then she withdrew and licked Charlene's inner thighs high, near the pubic hair with feathery brushstrokes. She worked her way to the pubic hairs, which she licked apart. Charlene was a mass of erotic expectation by the time she felt the loving tongue lap in exploration around the pink folds of her lower lips. At this point, Charlene thought she would die if she did not soon feel the marvelous tongue directly on her small pink bud of flesh. Just as she felt she could stand no more, she felt the first licks. It was like rich velvet against the excited bit of flesh. As she was moaning with pleasure, she felt the speed of the fluttering tongue increase. It was the tongue of an artist. Against her will not really against, for her will was completely overpowered by the other woman she went into uncontrollable spasms of continuous orgasms. She reached a pitch of excitement and gratification that left her almost numb.
From somewhere in outer space, she heard Rotheimer say, "That was beautiful, Rona. Beautiful." He sounded as if he had come, too.
She lay there spent, yet unrelaxed she was too humiliated to open her eyes. Then, suddenly, without warning, she felt a plunge into her vagina by a powerful, insistent, very authoritative cock. Her eyes flew open to the sight of Miss Stern, an enormous flesh-colored dildo strapped to her hips, fucking the life out of her. And, even as Charlene was recoiling from surprise, she discovered that she was beyond herself, beyond all control, all reasoning. Soon she was meeting Miss Stern's plunges with eager delight.
The two of them were in a frenzy now, meeting each other joyfully, moaning, screaming with pleasure. As Charlene's back stiffened and she went into yet another orgasm, Miss Stern Rona joined her.
On the other side of the room, Rotheimer's simultaneous handmade orgasm was no less glorious.
Later, at home, Charlene poured out the story to Sonja. The troubled girl had hoped for understanding, perhaps even sympathy. Instead, she evoked keen interest even periodic applause.
"Mother, you don't know how awful it made me feel. Imagine! Having a woman making love to me!"
"From what you told me, you had a hell of a good time."
"I just had a hell of a lot of orgasms, Mother."
"That's what I call a good time."
"Mother, it was only sex. Fantastic, 'way-out sex, but still, just sex. Not love. I don't feel emotionally satisfied."
"Oh, poor baby," Sonja had cooed, obviously unsympathetic to Charlene's reasoning. "Look," she added, as she picked up the morning newspaper from the coffee table. "Look what I saw in the paper today." She opened to a page of mink-coat ads long minks, short minks, all kinds of minks. "This is what you should have... a floor-length mink to wear with long dresses and it even zips off so you can wear it with short dresses. Isn't it exquisite?" she rattled on enthusiastically. "Terribly expensive, but you'll need the best for your premieres this fall."
"Mother! I'm talking about something important. Not mink coats!"
"Darling, what can be more important than a mink coat? Don't forget, we women always feel better when we buy something new. That'll be your little treat to yourself. You've worked so hard. You deserve it."
"Little treat! A five-thousand-dollar mink coat?"
"So what! You've got to put up a good front."
"Hershey sent me a fur-trimmed coat before he got mad at me, and it's stunning. It's all I need."
"It's nice for lesser evenings, but it's not fur, dear. It's fake fur."
"All the better, Mother. It's the rage. You don't have to kill animals that way. Some day there won't be any more fur coats because we'll have killed all the animals."
"Well, then, that settles it. You better hurry up and buy the mink coat before the price goes up."
"Oh, Mother!" Charlene had become exasperated. How had Sonja twisted this into a conversation about furs, anyway? She had wanted to have a heart-to-heart talk with her mother. And look how it had ended. Good God!
Somehow, for reasons now forgotten, Charlene did get the mink. The best. Seven thousand dollars worth, in fact.
Charlene shrugged off the memories as she drove on to the studio lot. The policeman in the booth knew her well by now and simply waved her on with a smile and a salute. In fact, all the studio workers were friendly which seemed to make the whole work experience pleasant. She felt so accepted, so casual, that it gave her a jolt to be addressed as "Miss" instead of by her first name.
And then there were the people who acted as if she were royalty. The caste system was prevalent in the motion picture industry, no doubt about that.
As she neared her parking spot not far from the sound stage, an excitement surged through her. My first day of shooting on a real picture! Life was wonderful.
She parked her car and walked on to the stage with new zest.
CHAPTER TEN
Charlene, so tired she was numb, dragged herself into her car for the journey home. At least, the heavy traffic had by now diminished, she thought, but that was poor compensation for the killing hours she lately found herself working.
Driving through the gate, she waved goodbye to the policeman a different one from the morning, of course. They, at least, worked sensible eight-hour shifts. There was, in fact, an orderliness in their lives that Charlene now missed in her own. Everything was topsy-turvy, it seemed, and everyone working on the picture seemed to be affected.
For instance, consider the old established actor, William Elders, who played the part of Charlene's father in the film. William Elders was used to having the shooting schedule worked around him. And now he had a minor for competition. The production man must have had a lot of fun working out the shooting schedule, Charlene thought frivolously. Usually, Elders wouldn't accept a make-up call before eight A.M. and wouldn't shoot after six P.M. And there was never an argument, for he had it writ-ten in his contract. Now, of course, there was no argument, either, but for utterly different reasons.
They hadn't yet "wrapped" when she and Elders left the set. They were still shooting scenes without either of them. Charlene thought they must all be wacky with fatigue by now. Particularly the crew, who arrived before anybody in the morning to set up.
They had all been very nice to her. In fact, everyone treated her like a princess. Elaine, her stand-in old enough to be her mother even managed to embarrass Charlene by waiting on her hand and foot, forever bringing coffee or milk, volunteering to run errands and so on. Charlene smiled as she recalled Elaine's shock when once Charlene had brought her coffee, as she was standing under the hot lights.
Stand-ins really have to work hard, Charlene thought. How luck I am. It seems they spend half their lives under the blistering bulbs waiting for cameras to be set up at just the precise angle and with exactly the correct lighting. At least I'm getting the money to compensate for the hard work.
The cameraman had told Charlene that it would be much easier as soon as she learned the ropes. She had never before realized, when watching movies, just how much technical expertise there was to it. For instance, she had to concentrate on not moving a fraction out of her key light else a shadow would be thrown on her face. At the same time she had to remember her lines and really throw herself into the part. And then, just when she was truly feeling it, the director would yell "Cut!" Many times when she thought it was perfect, he would call for another take because there had been some technical difficulty. The golden words were, "It's a print!"
Her little car virtually drove itself up and over Laurel Canyon. It was almost six the clock had gone all the way around since that morning. All she could think about now was a nice hot bath, and a quiet dinner with Sonja and Jon. By that time, hopefully, she would be rested enough to answer all their bubbly questions.
She was especially thankful that Sonja hadn't tried to stay long after lunch. She had just caught one of Charlene's scenes, told her she was great, and then taken off a million things to do, she said.
Home at last! Charlene drove the little car into its resting spot. She didn't immediately notice that cars were parked all up and down the street.
She limped up the steps and opened the front door to a crashing sound. "Surprise!"
There was a blur of smiling, drunken faces some she recognized, most not.
She stood at the doorway, stunned.
"Charlene, baby," Sonja slurred, taking her by the waist. "Are you surprised, honey?"
"I sure am." She was still motionless. "Come on, baby, I want to introduce you around. Hey, everybody, quiet! The star is here." Charlene flinched.
She saw Jon, Nicky and Lola, and even Mr. M. All else blended into bleached hair, long dresses, silk shirts, and flowing booze.
Charlene loosened herself from her mother and started for the stairs.
"Hey! Where you going, baby? You haven't met everybody let me get you a drink."
"You can bring it to me in the tub, Mom."
"The tub! This is your big celebration. First day in the movie!"
"But it's not my last, Mother, and I have to get up at six again tomorrow. And I'm starving. Is there any dinner?"
"Oh, there's lots to eat. Bring that tray over here, Paul." Sonja motioned to a tall Negro in white. Charlene sampled a couple of hors d'oeuvres, which were predictably unsatisfying.
"Have you met my daughter?" Sonja asked a swilled couple, before Charlene had a chance to flee. "She's going to be a big star someday."
The couple could have cared less, being only interested in the tray of tinkling drinks which floated by. Charlene ducked out while she had the chance.
The privacy of her bedroom had never seemed so appealing, Charlene thought as she entered. But no sooner was she inside that she encountered the unmistakable grunts and moans of a laboring couple.
She traced the sounds directly to her own bed, where she saw the couple high in the throes of sexual rapture. They didn't even have the decency to take down the bedspread, she thought irritably. Well, fuck them! Then she spontaneously giggled, thinking they were already doing a pretty good job of that. Or perhaps really not so good, on second thought, as they were both so loaded they seemed to be functioning only with difficulty. Completely unnoticed, she grabbed a change of clothes from her closet and made for the bathroom.
She opened the door to find a woman passed out in the commode. There was a terrible stench of vomit.
Charlene gagged, flushed the toilet, then dragged the woman out to the bedroom where she unceremoniously deposited her on the floor near the moaning couple who still noticed nothing.
My God, how long has this party been going on?
Again in the bathroom, she opened the window to air it out and ran water and bubble bath into her tub. What a nightmare, she thought. How could Mom be so stupid as to think I would want to have a party after my first day on the picture?
She should have known better. After all, she had done a couple of parts. Of course, that was ten years ago, but still, could she have forgotten how demanding the picture business is? Maybe that's why she never got anywhere always too busy living it up to work on her part. Well, I'm not going to do that! I've had to put out too much to flub it. But wouldn't you think Jon would know better. After all, he's still in the business. Of course, he just works a few days here and there. It's not the same as carrying a large part like she was doing.
Wearily she removed her clothes and cleaned her face. She had just pinned her hair up and stepped into the tub when a distinguished-looking older man walked into the bathroom. Or swayed, rather.
"My, God, didn't I lock the door?" Charlene blurted out angrily.
"Sure you did, honey, but you can't keep Norry the Cat out of a room he wants to get into." He waved a credit card at her. "These cards will open any inside door if you just slide them in the crack the right way."
"Well, hooray!" Charlene said furiously. "Don't you have any respect for other people's privacy?" But, obviously, there would be no answer forthcoming. Charlene's heated anger turned to rage. "Why don't you just get the hell out of here!" she screamed.
Instead of retreating, the man quietly and calmly began to take his clothes off. "Now just what the hell do you think you're doing?" Charlene spat, barely in control of herself.
"I'm going to take a nice bubble bath with you, baby."
"You do, and it may be your last," she answered, acid in her voice, but just the same she washed quickly so she could be leaving as he entered.
She was by now livid. She had counted on a hot relaxing bath and now she had to jump out as fast as she had jumped in. She gazed, with loathing, at the loose hanging flesh that exchanged places with her. "Hey," the man complained as he slipped around trying to get out while Charlene speedily patted herself dry. Sensing that he might not be able to make it out by himself at all, she applied her after-bath lotion, permitting the man to look on hungrily at her lithe body.
"The soap's in the dish," she said sarcastically. "You may as well get clean while you're there."
"You aren't being very nice to me," he hiccoughed. "An up-and-coming star should shine down kindly upon the dead suns of Hollywood." Charlene looked more closely at her bathroom companion. My, God, she said silently to herself, it's Norris Templeton. He was once a big star. Now, he's come to this a bathtub masher? A penniless lush? God, Mom must have dug up all her old comrades from her movie days. What was she trying to prove? Renewing old acquaintances of long gone years to flaunt her daughter? How pathetic. Her fury melted into something near compassion.
When she was dressed, ready to leave her bath-mate to his own devices, she went to the tub and pulled the plug. "Just so you won't drown," she said. She'd have to find Jon or someone else to help Norris Templeton out of the tub.
With glazed eyes, he was smiling angelically as she left the room. The couple on the bed had finally petered out and were snoring, as was the woman on the floor. God, Charlene thought, what did Mom do, slip everybody a mickey?
When she finally located Jon among the weaving bodies, she found that he, too, was in a bad way probably unable to wrest old Templeton safely out of the tub.
Maybe Nicky could help. She caught sight of him across the living room, but he was molesting a young actress, and she decided he would be no better. The only ones strong and sober enough to help were the waiters, so she relieved Paul of a tray of goodies and directed him toward the bathroom.
After eating a few of the delicacies, she passed the tray around.
"Serving at your own party, Charlene?"
She turned to face Mr. M.
"My God, Mr. M., it's good to see you. You're the only sober one at this party outside of the help and me. How come everybody's so potted?"
"Your mother started this wing ding at four o'clock, and since most of the guests are 'in between' jobs, they arrived promptly."
Charlene simply shook her head disgustedly.
A short, thirtyish man who had played kid parts until his lined, puffy face had caught up with him bumped into Charlene, at the same time purposely arranging for his mouth to meet her bust. "Being a little guy's not all bad," he wisecracked. A few bystanders laughed drunkenly at the tired joke.
After he had gone on his way, Charlene turned to Sid Morris. "I don't know what I'm going to do, Mr. M. I'm bushed, I'm starving, and I'm supposed to be up at six looking young, rested and beautiful. I couldn't even relax in a hot tub because some old actor wanted to join me. My bed's occupied by a couple of passed-out drunks and so's my floor. And I'll bet this party goes on till the wee hours."
"I have the perfect solution, Charlene. I also find it wearing to be around a lot of drunks, so why don't you do an old man the honor of going out to dinner with him? Also, pack a bag and you can spend the night at my house. There's plenty of room."
"Oh, Mr. M., you're a doll. A genius, too. But isn't that an inconvenience?"
"Not at all. Just think, someday my wife will be able to brag about having a big star under our roof. Get your things and meet me at my car. It's down the road. You can follow me in your car. I'll watch for you."
On the way back up to her bedroom, Charlene had a problem getting through the throngs of people. She tried to chat amicably with each as they stopped her with bits of senseless conversation and gushing "Little Charlenes." She thought she would puke if she heard "Just think, our little Charlene has grown up to be a big movie star" one more time.
She pinned a note to her mother's bedspread not that Sonja would be sober enough to read it and managed to slip out of the house.
They sat opposite each other, Charlene happily devouring a shrimp cocktail.
"You're a life saver, Mr. M. I would have died a terrible death if you hadn't saved me."
"It's my pleasure, Charlene. Believe me. I would have been flattered to have escorted Charlene, the model of my humble wholesale house, to dinner. But to escort Charlene, the movie star that is a real honor!"
Charlene blushed. She knew that although Mr. M. was saying it jokingly, he meant it he really liked her. Suddenly she thought about the day in his office when he went down on her and just as suddenly she felt the heat surge through her, down to her groin. He was nice, she thought, really nice. And a very attractive man for his age, at least.
"Don't you ever take your wife to parties, Mr. M.?"
Mr. M. laughed. "Oh, my, no. She wouldn't know what to say to anybody at a wild Hollywood party. She's a quiet woman. Shy. Doesn't drink. No, she's much happier playing cards with her friends."
"Oh, then she's out, too. You're not keeping her waiting." It was a statement rather than a question. The waiter replaced the empty shrimp cocktail bowls with steaming clam chowder. "I've never been here before," Charlene said. "Their food sure is scrumptious."
"It's pretty new, but has taken over as one of the top seafood restaurants in town."
They savored their food in silence for a few moments. Then Charlene said, "Mr. M., I want to ask you something."
"Shoot."
"Well, I could understand if my mother had a party with a bunch of top directors and producers and columnists. That would be her choice of 'right people' for me to meet to get ahead. But how come, after my first day of work, when she knows I'm dead tired, she has to throw a big wing ding inviting all her old thespian friends and broken-down playmates?"
"Just showing off, Charlene. Believe me, if she could have gotten a lot of prominent people to come, she would have. I think she feels that when the picture's released and a smash hit, they'll be glad to come to parties in your honor, but right now the best she can do is show off in front of her old cronies."
"But she's had her own success."
"It was all very third-rate, Charlene. You're her real hope. She believes you'll become one of the top stars, and so she has transplanted all her dreams to you. Don't be too harsh with her."
"Oh, I'm not Mr. M., but... it's just that sometimes I feel that I'm the parent and my parents are the children. You should have heard them battling on the phone the other day."
The lobster arrived, and Charlene continued, "My father called. He'd apparently been reading my publicity. He started blasting my mother, saying, 'I hope you're happy now that you've turned our daughter into an expensive Hollywood whore!' Mom retorted, and I quote, 'That's better than your fucking lady friends! What're they? Cheap whores because they sleep with you and you're the cheapest bastard in the world!' Then she crashed the phone down. He rang again and she wouldn't answer it, or even let me answer it."
Mr. M. listened gravely to Charlene's pathetic story. He couldn't help thinking that she had turned out at seventeen more of a person than his own two sheltered daughters were at thirty. Not only were his Becky and Ruth sheltered, but they were spoiled rotten. Reared mainly by their mother, they had been raised to believe a woman's function was to keep house for her husband, bear his children and spend his money. Her duties occasionally included giving the old man a little poontang. But never repeat, never could the lady-wife be expected to participate in any sexual endeavors other than the "wholesomely" normal. Those other little diversions were left to whores.
"Charlene," he said, breaking away from his private thoughts, "I once said it takes more than beauty to make it. Besides the second quality, brains, there is one more quality needed to make it to the top. That quality is integrity. And you have it. You know when to work and when to play. A very important thing to know. Many girls in your position would say, 'What the hell there's a party I'm going to have fun.' But not you. You know you have to be rested for tomorrow and must also know your lines. You're a responsible person. You're going to get the work done, and do your best.
"I sure miss you at the plant. It's not just that the new girl can't hold a candle to you in looks it's also that eager quality of yours I miss. You throw yourself into your work, whatever it may be. Of course, I'm delighted about your success. But, understand, that doesn't prevent me from missing you."
Charlene felt proud. She knew that Mr. M.'s compliments were not just vacuous words. She treasured his opinion.
"If it hadn't been for you, Mr. M., I wouldn't have gone out with Hershey and I wouldn't be where I am today."
"I've told myself the same thing, Charlene. But I don't believe it any more."
"How can you say that?"
"Because I think you'd make it one way or another, sooner or later. You've got what it takes."
"Well, anyway, Mr. M., I still feel I owe you a lot. And I hope I'll be able to make it up to you leaving you as suddenly as I did."
"Oh?" His face lit up.
She continued, "Mr. Rotheimer intends to make a TV series from the film if it's a success. I've been thinking about this. I think I can promote a deal between Hollywood Sunwear and the series. You know, you supply me with the wardrobe and Hollywood Sunwear gets named in the credits." Charlene thought about how Mr. Rotheimer couldn't consider that doing her a favor since it would save him a fortune in production costs. Both Mr. Rotheimer and Mr. M. would gain from such an arrangement.
"Charlene, I always did say you have brains! That's a great idea! And for arranging the deal, I would give you the wardrobe."
Well, we'd all gain, thought Charlene. Aloud, she said, "Keep it strictly to yourself, though, so no other manufacturer gets wind of it and approaches him first."
"Don't worry, I'm used to keeping secrets." Charlene smiled.
"The dinner was delicious, Mr. M. Thanks."
"My pleasure. Would you like some dessert?"
"No thanks. The camera adds an automatic ten pounds, they say, so I mustn't add even an ounce."
"And I just plain old have to watch my waistline," he answered with a twinkle. "Shall we go, then?"
"Your house is lovely," Charlene said after they had parked their cars. It was a prepossessing Mediterranean style with an abundance of foliage, a well-trimmed lawn. "It's a far cry from the streets of New York."
"Oh, were you brought up in New York?"
"Until I was fourteen. Then my father got a job offer and moved out here. Of course, not here," he said, indicating the immediate neighborhood, "but L.A. However, it was like leaving the snarl of the jungle for the purr of a sunny cove. At the age of fourteen, I decided to never go back." They had arrived at the top of the walkway. He stopped talking and struggled with the lock.
"Welcome to Morris Manor," he offered, with a sweep of the palm.
"It really is like a manor," Charlene said, glancing around the large entrance hall. "Your wife isn't in yet?"
"Hell, no don't expect her for another hour, at least. Come on, I'll show you to your room, give you an alarm clock and point you in the direction of the phone so you can instruct your service."
Charlene followed him up the winding staircase, down the hall and into a large, comfortable bedroom.
"There's a bathroom right here," he said, opening the door to a spacious tiled area. "There are clean towels on the rack. You may want to continue your rudely interrupted bath. In any case, I'll look in on you in a half-hour and see if you need anything before you turn in."
Charlene had just slipped between the crisp sheets when the knock came. Sid Morris entered, clad in silk pajamas and a silk robe. He was carrying a glass of sherry. "Thought you'd like to have this. Helps you sleep," he said.
"Oh, Mr. M., you're so thoughtful."
He handed her the glass. "You look just like a little girl with that scrubbed face and that fluffy baby-blue nightie." He sat on the edge of the bed as she sipped from the glass.
She giggled. "I feel like a little girl waiting to hear a bedtime story from her daddy."
"Well, actually," Sid said as he scratched his chin, "I thought you might tell me one."
"That's a twist," she laughed.
"That was such a nice story you told me about Hershey and you after the first time you went out with him.
And since I haven't seen you for a while, I thought you might have some new material. What about the producer or director of your movie? There must be a nice sexy story hidden there somewhere." Charlene looked downcast. "Oh, I don't think so, Mr. M."
"Oh, come on, now." He took her chin and brought her face up and saw a sadness in her eyes. "What's wrong? Tell Daddy M."
"It's just that... well, Mr. Rotheimer, the producer, is really a sort of evil man."
"Oh, really?" he asked excitedly. "Why don't you tell Daddy all about it?"
After he dragged the stories of Mr. Rotheimer's sexual appetites from her reluctant lips, he said, "Well, Charlene, you shouldn't really think of him as evil. After all, there are many perfectly nice men who like to have their cocks sucked under a desk." He felt a bit self-conscious.
"It isn't that, Mr. M., but you know, having his secretary come in while it's going on and all... "
"Hmm, hadn't thought of that one."
"But what it really is, is his attitude. He is just plain unkind. Then forcing me into the lesbian thing with his secretary, knowing it disgusted me... and then, to make it worse I kept having orgasm after orgasm... unwillingly, of course... "
"Yes, yes, of course," Mr. M. said, salivating. "You poor baby. Of course, the really unforgivable thing was sending you away those other times without making you come first. That's a real example of unkindness. He must have known how hot you were."
"Oh, yes, he felt me. Down there, you know. He reveled in the knowledge he had me all worked up."
"You poor baby," he said, taking her in his arms to comfort her.
"Oh, Mr. M., you're such a nice man," she sighed, enjoying the comfort of his arms. "I wish I'd had a daddy as kind and gentle as you."
"And I wish I'd had a little girl as sweet and delicious as you."
When Mr. M. said "delicious" a bell rang in the back of Charlene's mind. Again she recalled the day when he had gone down on her. She began to tingle at the thought.
He stroked her hair and kissed her on the cheek. "Do you think you can sleep now that you've told me my bedtime story and had your glass of sherry?"
She looked up at him, her wide blue eyes still innocent despite all they'd seen. She hesitated, then stuttered, "I... I usually have something else to put me to sleep."
"What, my dear?" When she didn't respond, he said, "Tell Daddy. What else do you need to put you to sleep?"
She looked down, her long lashes casting a shadow on her cheeks as she said, "Jon fucks me every night."
"Oh, that's sweet," he cooed in her ear, then kissed her on the neck and moved her nightie off her shoulder so he could cup a pink-tipped breast in his hand. "But Daddy isn't too good a fuck any more. However... "
"Oh, he sucks me too... sometimes, instead," she added hurriedly. "You little doll. You want Daddy to sue baby, so baby can sleep?" She nodded.
He took her breast in his mouth, then slipped his hand up under her fluffy nightie. "Oh, what a wet little pussy," he exclaimed, delightedly. "Just a minute." He jumped up. "I have to close the door."
"Don't forget to lock it."
"It doesn't have a lock."
"But suppose your wife comes home?"
"I'll hear her car. She brings it by this side of the house. I'll just turn off the light and open the shutters, so she won't see a light from this room."
The moonlight poured in as he opened the shutters.
Charlene threw back the bed covers. "Daddy M., why don't you take your things off and lie down with me? We can suck each other at the same time."
Sid Morris's highest expectations were exceeded. "You sweet little doll. You mean you're going to put those precious lips over my old, large cock? You don't have to, you know. Daddy's going to give his baby a good cum anyway."
"I know, Daddy M., that's why I want to because you're such a good, kind daddy."
In a flash, Sid Morris had shed his clothes, and before Charlene could have any second thoughts on the matter his very rigid, silk-skinned old cock was poking at her mouth. He had arranged himself in the classic sixty-nine position, side to side.
As she felt his tongue flick at her clitoris, she moaned and opened her mouth and let her own tongue swirl and flick at her new daddy's penis. Together the man and his newfound daughter sucked lovingly on each other's center of sexuality.
After a momentary exploration, Sid Morris stopped long enough to say, "You have the sweetest-tasting little pussy in the world the taste of honey."
"And my Daddy has a big beautiful, delectable cock," Charlene responded. They both continued to suck greedily.
After another busy interlude, during which each participant was brought agonizingly close to the edge of passion's explosion, Charlene stopped to say, "Wouldn't Daddy like to fuck baby a little bit?"
Sid relinquished his mouth from Charlene's lower lips and managed to huff and puff his way atop the young girl. Only after considerable juxtapositioning during which it seemed his stomach just would not get out of the way, Sid Morris finally felt his penis encased in the warmish, wettish vagina. It was almost too much. He was so consumed with the passion of refound youth he could not restrain himself, or even slow the furious stroking long enough to get a deep breath.
Charlene knew the desperation of his need, and simply hugged his waist closer with her thighs, her long legs hooked by the ankles high up at his neck. "Oh, God, you feel good, Daddy," she sighed. She continued meeting his thrusts, pump for pump.
"Easy," he managed to gasp, "I don't want to come." He stroked in and out much more slowly now.
"Better stop," he panted at length, rolling off. "Oh, God, I forgot how good it can be. Haven't fucked anybody but my wife in years."
"You still fuck her, then?" Charlene asked, while re-arranging herself back into the soixante-neuf position.
"About once a month she decides she had better perform her wifely duty and puts on a black lace nightie. That's the signal."
They put their mouths to each other's genitals again and carried on where they had only moments before left off.
Soon Charlene felt overwhelmed by sensual heat. She was gushy-hot and utterly sexual through and through. Then, overcome by a sweeping rush of heat, culminating with a stiffening of her back, the sweet release of multiple orgasms shook through her.
Her partner, feeling her grand reaction, simultaneously experienced a newer, higher, exploding passion than any he had known since youth, a passion which he immediately spilled into her mouth. Charlene could barely gulp fast enough to keep up with the heavy blasts of semen.
They sucked on, licked each other slowly until the last spasm quieted into mutual satisfaction. Then they rested quietly face to crotch crotch to face.
Suddenly Sid Morris jumped up.
"My God! I didn't hear the car drive in!"
He grabbed for his robe, shoved Charlene under the bedcovers, and kicked his pajamas under the bed. He just managed to tie on the robe in a crooked fashion when the door opened and the light flashed on. "I thought I heard noises in here," a voice announced from the doorway.
"Yes, my dear, it's me. I have a little guest here... Charlene. I'm sure you recall my mentioning my ex-model Charlene who is now Charlene the movie star?"
"Oh, yes, I do!" Mrs. Morris Adelle twittered with delight.
"Poor thing couldn't get any rest at her house wild party there so I knew you'd be happy to have her stay here with us."
"Oh, yes, I'm delighted," Adelle trebled.
"Charlene, I want you to meet my wife."
"How do you do, Mrs. Morris."
"Glad to meet you, Charlene. I hope you'll be comfortable. What time would you like to have the maid bring your breakfast?
"Oh, please, Mrs. Morris. I have to get up too early to bother anybody else. I'll get something to eat at the studio."
"Nonsense. What time do you get up?"
"Six."
"Oh!"
"Just leave some orange juice in the fridge, Mommy. And leave out an instant breakfast Charlene can mix with milk." Sid Morris, now fully recovered from his shock, was keenly aware that the maid could easily be put into a temper tantrum.
"Yes, that would be wonderful," Charlene agreed.
"Very well," Adelle said with relief. "And since you have to get up so early, I'll say good night now. Rest well. And I do hope you'll come back sometime when we can chat."
"Thank you, Mrs. Morris. Good night."
Sid Morris took a deep, grateful breath of relief as Adelle closed the door after her. "Oh, Daddy M., I'm a nervous wreck," Charlene said, hugging her face with her hands. "Not half as nervous as she is."
"She? Nervous? Why on earth should she be nervous?"
"She doesn't meet a glamorous movie star every day."
"My God!" Charlene reached out and rubbed her hand up and down over Sid's hairy leg. "Do you think she saw your bare legs?"
"Not a chance. She's so nearsighted she wouldn't have noticed if I'd been bare."
"Sure. That's why you grabbed your robe as if the house was on fire."
"Well, there's no use pushing luck. Is there?"
Charlene smiled. "I love you, Daddy M."
"And I love you, sweet baby."
"But now I'm so nervous I don't think I can sleep."
"Oh, poor baby. You want Daddy to kiss you again?" He patted her proud wet-haired muff as he asked.
She looked up at him, seductively wide-eyed. "Uh huh."
Sid Morris made a move to position himself between the sculptured legs.
"But your wife? Do you think she might come back in here?"
"Not a chance."
"Are you sure? How do you know?"
"I know her. She's in there now, removing her clothes, cleaning her face, taking her bath. It'd be an hour before she'd even miss me."
He pulled the covers off Charlene and spread her legs open. Then he pulled her fur-covered lips apart and applied his warmish tongue against her excited clitoris. Again he licked and sucked her into a joyful release.
"Thank you, Daddy M. Nightie night."
"Nightie night, little girl." He bent over and kissed her on the mouth. "My little adopted girl. Remember, you've always got a home with Daddy M."
"Mmmm." She was already curled on her side, almost overtaken by the halcyon incubus of post-sex sleep.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sonja was still furiously straightening up the house when she heard Charlene's car brake to a stop out front.
"The place is still a shambles. Thank God the cleaning lady comes tomorrow," she muttered aloud.
No sooner had Charlene entered the house than Sonja sprang like a tigress. "So! You finally decided to come home! I've never been so humiliated in my life!"
Charlene leaned back against the front door with exhaustion. "If I had the strength, I should be the one screaming, Mother."
"You ungrateful brat! That party was in your honor. And you walked out."
"I'm sure I was never missed, Mother! Everyone was so loaded they hardly noticed me when I came in. On top of that, I talked to nearly everyone before I left. Can't you understand that I have a large part in an important picture and I can't party all night long and then do my job properly the next day?"
"Stop pampering yourself. One night doesn't hurt. You're young and strong."
Charlene, wanting very much to drop the subject, shifted tactics and asked, "Where's Jon?"
"He's playing tennis."
Charlene flared up. "Oh, I see. The two of you sleep most of the day away, and then Jon's got enough energy to go tennis-playing in the middle of the night. But I was supposed to stay up helping to entertain a bunch of lushes and then go to work this morning!"
"You wouldn't even have the Goddamned part if it wasn't for me!" Sonja screamed.
"Oh, really?" Charlene questioned with quiet iciness. "Just exactly how did you come to that farfetched conclusion?"
"Who the hell got you started? Who planned your career? Who taught you tricks of the trade? ME! Me! Your mother!" Sonja's voice was now screeching. Charlene closed her eyes a moment. Then she said, "Tell me, Mother dear, do you think I would have gotten anywhere if I hadn't been good?"
"We're not talking about that. We're talking about getting you started. And I got you started."
"And now it's up to me to keep on going. That's the hard part. That's where the work comes in, Mother. I'm sorry you're angry about last night. To tell you the truth, so was I. I couldn't figure out how anybody could be so selfish as to have a drunken brawl on a work night. Christ, I wasn't even able to get into my bathroom without pulling out a passed-out broad first, or my own bed without bumping into a fuck scene. It was more important for you to show me off than to let me get my much needed rest. I don't call that helping."
"You don't have to act like a little shit!" Sonja spat.
"And you don't always have to resort to name-calling," Charlene snapped back. "Now you sound superior, just like your fucking father!"
Charlene swept past her mother and on up to her bedroom, but Sonja was on her heels. Randomly Charlene threw clean clothes into a suitcase.
"And just where the hell do you think you're going?" Sonja demanded.
"Well, Mother dear, I'm not going to stay around and listen to this. I know you when you get wound up. I'm tired and I'm hungry." She crashed the lid down on the luggage and snapped the clasp. Then she pounded down the stairs, heading for the front door.
"You can't leave. You're a minor."
But Charlene was already out the door. "That's the funniest remark you've ever made, Mother," she shot back as she slipped into her car.
Charlene was already in motion when Sonja screamed, "Come back! Charlene. I demand that you come back! Do you hear me? Come back!"
Sonja, stark realization finally setting in, sank against the door jamb. "Oh, God, what have I done?" she gasped to herself between sobs. She remained in her stricken state for long minutes, and then made her way back into the house where she sank to the floor.
Sonja had just regained her composure and was in the process of pulling herself together when the doorbell rang.
She jumped to answer hoping, praying, it might be Charlene.
"Hello, Mrs. uh Sonja." Young Tom quickly remembered that Charlene's mother always wanted her friends to call her by her first name. "Is Charlene here?"
Sonja pulled Tom into the house and fell against his lanky frame in a new torrent of sobs.
"Oh, Tom," she cried. "I just had a terrible fight with Charlene. It was my fault, I should've been more understanding. She's so young and has so much responsibility all of a sudden."
Tom stood bewildered with this usually strong woman, now broken, clinging to him.
"What happened?" he managed.
But her sobs still overpowered her. She buried her face in the crook of his neck. Tom could feel her firm full breasts pressed against him and the heaves in her chest as the sobs continued.
Tom felt awkward. He took her by the waist and tried to guide her. "Let's go sit down in the living room. Try to tell me all about it."
Sonja allowed herself to be led to the couch, where she sank down on a green velvet cushion.
"There you are," he soothed. "Try to calm down. Can I fix you a drink? Maybe that'll help."
Sonja took a deep breath and in between gasps she nodded.
Tom went to the portable bar. "What'll you have?"
"I've been drinking martinis. But maybe that's the trouble. There's some brandy down there. A shot of brandy in a snifter glass that should help." Tom accommodated her.
As he handed her the glass, Sonja seemed to recover somewhat. "Oh, Tom, fix something for yourself, too. Forgive me for being such a bad hostess."
"Don't worry about me. I don't drink much. Just a beer now and then." Sonja jumped up. "I'll get you one from the fridge."
"Oh, don't bother." But she was already out of the room.
When she returned quite a few minutes later her hair was combed and her mascara no longer streaked. She was a different person tall, poised, her own mistress once more.
Tom blinked. "You feel better?"
"Much. Here." She handed him the beer. "I'm sorry I lost control, Tom."
"Gosh, don't think anything of it. Happens to us all sometimes."
She sat down on the couch close to him. "You're a nice boy, Tom," she said stroking him on the cheek. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come along to comfort me." He blushed. "Gee, Sonja, I haven't done anything."
"Just having you here, you're a nice, big, strong boy, is very comforting." She leaned her head against his chest.
He awkwardly put his arm around her and patted her on the shoulder.
"Oh, Tom, I don't know what I would have done without you," she cried. "Here, let me thank you in my own special way." With that, Sonja threw both arms around his neck and planted a passionate kiss on his mouth.
He was surprised, but not too surprised to respond to her warm, full lips.
She let her hand move from his waist on down to his jeans, where she casually brushed by the fatness at his crotch. When she found what he had there, she went back for a firmer touch. He flinched in embarrassment. "I made a mistake," she said softly, still caressing the bursting jeans. Tom gulped. "What d'you mean?"
"You're not a boy. You're a man."
This time Sonja allowed her hand to linger a bit more, though she knew better than to scare the young man away with too overt a move. Rather, she permitted her light fingers to trickle up and down the underside of his turgid penis, which was lying on his belly, pointed upward.
"Oh, Mrs. I mean, Sonja. You shouldn't be doing that."
"I know, Tom, I know. But it feels so big and nice, I can hardly help myself. You don't really mind, do you?"
"But if anyone ever found out... "
"Like who?"
"Well, Charlene. She'd never talk to me again."
"Don't mention her to me just now, Tom. I'm still furious with her. Besides, I'd have to be nuts to tell my own daughter that I fondled your prick for you."
"What!"
"Prick is what I said, Tom. Does that surprise you?"
"Well, I guess not, now that I think about it... but I've never heard a woman say that before." Even as he uttered this last, Tom was relaxing his frame, allowing his body to slide down farther into the sofa. It was an involuntary act, and Tom's other reactions indicated he was still very apprehensive about the whole situation, though his apprehension was fast giving way to another response. His balls were beginning to feel liquidly hot and a trembling shudder shook his body.
Sonja sensed that the time was correct for her next play.
"Tom," she began, "is it all right if I ask you a personal question?"
"I... suppose so," he stammered.
"Well, this might seem like an odd thing to ask, since you're such a good-looking boy and since so many females must have already put the make on you, but, tell me, have you ever fucked a grown woman with this thing?"
Tom didn't answer immediately, so Sonja went on, "Well, if that's too personal a question, let me ask this has it ever been sucked real good?"
Again, Tom just looked at her, only half aware of the conversation his trembling penis on the verge of geysering.
"No... " he replied, almost meekly.
"Are you trying to tell me that you've never had the exquisite experience of shooting a good hot load into someone's mouth?"
"Jesus... "
"No girl, no woman... no man?"
Again the boy could do nothing but stare, still very aware of the soft, tendrilly probes of Sonja's fingers.
"Well, we'll have to do something about that right now, Tom," Sonja added, and without further toying reached down and unzipped the waiting fly.
She gazed in awe at the large, firm protrusion. "I think it's wonderful the way you young men never wear underwear under your jeans." She began caressing the bare young manhood as she spoke. "Just nature's children ready for the natural act... "
"Oh, Sonja," Tom gasped out in short breaths, "if you keep doing that... "
"Oh, I'm going to do much more than that, dear Tom." She began tugging at his jeans until she got them down below his knees, then started to lean over to take his swelling into her mouth. She stopped short and looked up at him. "You're going to love this, Tom. I just hope I don't ruin you for others."
Tom's eyes closed and he moaned deeply as Sonja's tongue flicked and licked and then swallowed up his entire penis.
Neither of them heard the front door open. Charlene, after munching on a hamburger at a local drive-in, had begun to feel guilty about her peremptory behavior toward her mother. She knew that Sonja, once the rage was out of her system, would forget the whole incident and that life would then go on as before. Charlene had come back to make amends, but now she stood looking at her young boy friend entwined with her mother. She could not stifle an involuntary gasp.
Tom and Sonja both looked up.
"Baby... " Sonja started, obviously taken by surprise.
"Don't you baby me!" Charlene snapped. "I came back because I felt so bad about leaving you all upset.
Upset! Ha!"
With that she stamped to the door.
"Charlene, let me explain," Tom said, standing up. But he forgot his jeans were around his ankles and he tripped and fell when he tried to move toward her. The door slammed and they were alone again.
"Don't worry about her. She'll get over it," Sonja said smoothly, by now recovered. She knelt on the floor beside Tom and took his penis in her hand, pumping it back and forth. "Youth is wonderful you hardly lost any firmness." Then, without further ceremony, she lifted her long hostess skirt and straddled the young boy who was still strapped on the floor, jeans constricting his ankles.
"You're my prisoner until I choose to let you free," she cooed sexily in his ear.
But she was wrong. She had momentarily forgotten that young men sometimes experience lack of control. So after she had pistoned up and down on his turgid manhood a few times, he suddenly gushed into her as if his penis were a giant syringe.
But Sonja wasn't really very concerned, for he was young, and so was the evening.
"How could she be so crass?" Charlene asked. She and Sid Morris were sitting in his private study, sipping liqueur. His wife had gone to bed earlier with a headache, so they knew they wouldn't be disturbed.
"Now, don't be too harsh with your mother, Charlene. Remember, she's been sharing her boy friend with you, so she probably feels that turnabout's fair play."
"It isn't that so much as how easily she's consoled. She was sobbing, almost hysterical then suddenly somebody puts a cock in her mouth and she's as happy as a baby with a pacifier."
"Well, I guess that's about the size of it. But that's Sonja and you must learn to accept her as she is. However, it's going to be even more difficult for her to realize that you're a separate person too, and not just a carbon copy of her. She is going to have to learn and understand that her ambitions are not necessarily your ambitions. That's why she was so unhappy and ashamed about your leaving the party she had realized her ambition through you and then when you didn't allow her to bask in the limelight with you, she felt cheated."
"Everything is so clear when you explain it to me, Daddy M.," Charlene said. "Maybe you ought to talk to Mom for me."
"No. Sonja is more instinctive than mental. She'll realize these things and come to terms with herself better if we just let her work them out for herself."
"Do you know what Mom's last brainstorm was two days before the picture started? She said my thirty-five-hundred-dollar sports car wouldn't be good enough for a successful star. I must turn it in as soon as possible for a super-German model with super-American payments. Honest to God, Daddy M., I'm sick of it. I'm not quite seventeen and already I'm working my ass off to meet payments. I panic to think what will happen if my contract isn't picked up, what with my present car and mink payments. I know what the next thing would be if I let her talk me into the car. Can you guess?"
Mr. M. simply shook his head as he lit a cigar. He puffed and leaned back, listening.
"I've already gotten hints of it. 'This isn't much of a house for a movie star,' she's said a million times.
That's the soft sell."
"Charlene, try to understand. Possessions the newer and more expensive the better are important to Sonja. She just wants you to have early what she had to wait for."
"What I'd like is a little peace of mind. I love that house. I like my little car, and the way things turned out, I can afford it. But I need that full-length mink like I need another head. I do like up-to-date clothes of which I have plenty right now but that's not much of an extravagance. But what I'm getting at is this: is it all worth it? Accepting all the Hersheys and worse yet, the Rotheimers in order to have material possessions? It's such a vicious circle."
"I've tried to tell you, baby, that you would have made it in any event. I tried to tell you that last night. It might have taken a little longer, but you'd have made it."
"You mean, from now on I should tell Rotheimer to go f... no, suck himself off?"
"Absolutely. I wouldn't put it quite like that, though." He put his cigar down in the large ashtray. "Come sit on my lap, baby."
She smiled and did as he asked, but it was not really the same act as it would have been with the movie mogul. It was of her own free will that she sat on his lap. She even squirmed cooperatively as he put his hand up underneath her short skirt. Soon his finger found its way into her slippery slit. "Oh, Daddy M., that feels so good."
"It sure does. Does baby want me to take her upstairs and tuck her in so she can tell Daddy a bedtime story?"
"Oh, yes, let's go."
"Tell me the one about the first time you sucked old Rotheimer off under the desk and the secretary came in for dictation," he said, as he led her up the stairs.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Cut! That's a print!" The sound stage was suddenly filled with applause. Once in a while rarely an actor gives such a fine performance in front of the camera that the other actors and crew watch in pure appreciation, and then, when the scene is finished they pay the actor or actress this type of special homage. For the actor no gift is greater.
The young director, looking more like an out-of-work actor or hippie in his jeans and long hair, rushed onto the set and threw his arms around Charlene. "You were wonderful, my dear... a marvel!"
Charlene, still somewhat dazed, smiled wanly as she realized the scene was over and that she really was Charlene, the actress, not Lydia the pathetic girl in the story.
As the director wandered off to look at his script and block out the next scene, the make-up man rushed in to wipe away Charlene's tears and repair her make-up. He also offered special congratulations.
"That's all right," the first assistant called to the make-up man. "Charlene's finished for the day. You were great, Charlene. Great," he said, walking up to her. "Sam'll give you your call for tomorrow." He turned and followed the director.
Charlene looked at her watch. "Gee, it's like a present;only four o'clock."
Sam, the second assistant, approached her just in time to hear her statement. "Don't get too excited," he said. "Mr. Rotheimer was here watching your scene and said to have you drop by his office when you were through. You were fantastic, Charlene."
"Oh, sure. So great Mr. Rotheimer didn't say a word. Just left orders for me to drop by his office."
Sam laughed abruptly. "Believe me, he was speechless. He was really moved. I know. I stood by his chair during the entire scene. Your call tomorrow is eight in make-up."
"Gee, I'm practically getting a vacation," Charlene said, sauntering over to her dressing room.
Her stand-in jumped up and followed her. "You were so great, Charlene. I just had to tell you. You made us all cry with you."
"Why, thank you, Elaine," Charlene smiled.
Charlene felt definitely on top of the world as she changed into her own clothes brushed blued denims and a white pullover sweater. Funny, she thought; with all her new, beautiful clothes, she usually just wore simple jeans or denims to work. Sort of a uniform. But then, why not?
When she walked out of her dressing room, Miss Pearson, the welfare worker, was waiting for her. Sunshine had broken through her gray exterior. "You were just splendid, Charlene," she beamed.
"Thank you very much, Miss Pearson. I appreciate your telling me."
"Well, we're through quite early today, aren't we?"
"Yes, but I have to drop by Mr. Rotheimer's office." And then like a stroke of purest genius, a diabolic thought came to Charlene. "Perhaps you'd like to accompany me. It's on your way out."
"Oh, certainly. I'd be happy to." Miss Pearson apparently took her responsibilities seriously.
Charlene looked Mr. Rotheimer's secretary directly even defiantly in the eye, forbidding her to even hint at familiarity. "I was told to drop by on my way out."
"Oh, yes," Miss Stern answered. "I was on the set with Mr. Rotheimer when you did your big scene. Oh, you were thrilling. The whole studio is talking about it. He's waiting for you. Go right in."
Charlene left the two women raving about her performance. She knocked on Rotheimer's door, as a form of courtesy, then walked in.
For the first time since she had met him, Rotheimer stood to greet her. He stood and moved out from behind his grand desk and clasped her by the shoulders. "My dear," he kissed her on the forehead, "You were magnificent! You're a great actress a natural. Of course, I knew it the first day you walked in here. Instinct, you know."
"Thank you, Mr. Rotheimer." She knew she was supposed to feel honored by the praise, the paternal kiss on the forehead, the walk to her around the desk. But what she really felt was a simple yet heady thing: power.
It was exhilarating. She waited.
"Come and sit down, my dear." He pulled the chair to the side of his desk, the position where Miss Stern usually took dictation. He helped her to her seat. Another first.
He replaced himself in his own chair and continued, "Yes, I'm going to make you into a top star." Charlene was amused at how the informal "we" was replaced by the personal "I" in this instance. His eyes pierced into her. They were softened, as was his voice. "I've missed our little trysts, my dear." Charlene shuddered. She could hardly call her services trysts.
When she didn't say anything, he tried again. "When I watched you do that scene, I really ached for you, Charlene."
"I'm glad I was so convincing," she said.
"Come here," he said, taking her by the hands and pulling her up in front of him. Charlene could barely conceal her smile. She stood before him.
He undid her belt and pulled down her zipper and yanked her denims down. "Jesus, these things wrap you up better than a chastity belt," he remarked.
Then he pulled her panties down and fingered her crotch. "You're nice and wet," he said. It was true. She was excited. It was not the way he thought but that excitement had made her wet, indeed. She was salivating with anticipation.
He moved his finger back and forth, then grabbed his zipper and pulled it down. "Now!" he cried, fumbling for his hardened penis. "Now. Get down under the desk."
"Gee, I can't today, Mr. Rotheimer. Miss Pearson, my welfare worker, is waiting out in the front office. I'm supposed to be on my way home."
He exploded. "Welfare worker! What the hell is she doing here? Bad enough to have those pests on the sets."
"She was just walking out with me. She likes to be certain that I'm all right and on my way home. I'm a minor, remember?" Charlene said "minor" with new meaning.
Mr. Rotheimer stuffed himself back into his trousers and re-zipped. "Get your pants up. What're you waiting for? If she took it in her mind to burst in here... " He trailed off. He knew that it was unlikely, yet he didn't feel secure with "that woman" sitting out in the front office.
Charlene casually put herself back together, then smiled sweetly. "Good afternoon, Mr. Rotheimer. Have a nice night." She sailed out the door in Queen Mary fashion. Not the boat, the queen.
"Hi Mom!" Charlene called as she stepped into the hallway and closed the front door.
"Oh, Charlene, baby." Sonja came running in from the kitchen and threw her arms around her offspring. "I have a nice dinner going. I'm so sorry, baby, about the last couple of nights. Guess I wasn't too much help to you, your first two days on the picture. But things are going to be different from now on."
"Well, as they say, it takes two to tango, Mom. It's just as much my fault as yours."
She held her mother back a second and scrutinized her short curly hair. "Did you have your hair cut and permed, Mom?"
Sonja laughed. "No, this is just my housewifely wig. I auditioned for a commercial today. I've got to get back in gear. 'Fraid I let my own work slide a bit,that was part of the problem."
"Did you get it?"
"I'll, find out tomorrow. It's down to two of us."
"Luck, Mom." Charlene kissed her mother on the nose. "I sure hope you get it."
"Well, whether I do or not isn't the important thing. What is important is that I am looking after my own career. You are perfectly capable of looking after your own career. You're adult no matter what the state says. And you have a right to live your own life."
"Did you talk to Mr. M. today?"
"No, why?"
"Oh, I just wondered. I spent the night at his house again." Charlene marveled at how right Daddy M. had been about Sonja.
"I assumed you had, since you had the night before."
"Yes." They walked into the kitchen and Charlene helped Sonja with some last-minute things for dinner. "He's told me I have a home there any time. What d'you think about that?"
"I think that's just splendid," Sonja answered, adding a dazzling smile. "Keep me on my toes. After all, I'm not worried about you defecting to your father."
"Hardly." Charlene paused, then said, "Mom, Mr. M. has asked me to call him Daddy M., says he loves me more than his own daughters. Did he ever say anything like that to you when you worked for him?"
Sonja had a difficult time keeping her smile from bursting into a laugh. She knew only too well the charms of Sidney Morris. "No, baby, but then, I was closer to his own age, remember."
"That's right."
"Here, break up this lettuce. He's a nice man and a good friend to both of us. Outside of always having his home open to you, will you be seeing anything of him?"
"Yes. We have a standing dinner date every Monday night his wife plays cards that night."
"That's nice. I'm glad. You need a father figure in your life."
"I fuck my father figure, Mother."
Sonja looked up from the sauce she was preparing. "So? What else is new?"
Charlene smiled. It was a great day. She was anxious to get Jon and her mother together at dinner and tell them her success story. "Where's Jon? Seems like I haven't seen him for days."
"That's another thing I've reorganized around here. I told him I didn't mind if he couldn't do his part financially, provided he tried. I've never been lazy, so I sure as hell can't stand lazy men."
Charlene was surprised that Sonja had laid the law down to Jon so adamantly. After all, he was a great lover. Then she recalled the scene the night before with Tom. Maybe she had replaced Jon with an even younger man. "How did he take it, Mom?"
"Very well. In fact, I think he was relieved. You see, he's the kind who has to have a coach behind him giving him a push all the time, and I wasn't prepared to keep that up. He took off at nine full of bounce and smiles. Checked in at noon to say he had several things in the offing. He'll be here at six for dinner after all, we can't let him starve. And Charlene," She looked at her daughter with concern. "I've invited someone else for dinner."
Charlene understood immediately. "Of course, Mother. I always love our small groups. Besides, it's my career, but it is your house. I don't want to forget that again."
Sonja put her spoon down and went to her daughter. "No, Charlene, this is your house, too. Your home. And I want you to be comfortable and happy here."
Charlene kissed her mother. "I am, Mom. What time is Tom coming?"
"Six-thirty."
Charlene broke into a delighted laugh. "Oh, good. Plenty of time to shower and change. Do you need me any more?"
"No. I planned on doing everything myself. You're a hard-working actress. But it was fun fiddling around in the kitchen together."
Charlene skipped on up the stairs, humming to herself. Tom, she thought. Well, if her mother had taught him as well as she had taught Charlene, Tom should soon be a helluva lover. Yes, the evening held a lot of promise.