Mike Jackson was no bumpkin from the farm country. With a degree in Business Administration, Mike had come to New York City to hustle himself a fortune. Meanwhile, his devoted madonna-like wife, Marcia, was happy to cook and clean for him-and support them both with her secretarial salary.
Because Mike truly respected his well-bred wife, he found his sexual pleasure with other women-like the well-built fledging actress that lived next door to him on the tenement lower East Side of Manhattan. Whatever kind of kinky sex Mike wanted, Janice was sure to please. But what Mike didn't know was that his sexual playmate only let him fuck her in order to prove to herself that she was a normal woman. The sexual fantasies she had were frightening to her and they always culminated with the enticing face of a dark and sensuous woman. Janice, Mike's next door "easy lay", was terribly afraid that she was, in fact, a lesbian.
Marcia, Mike's loving wife, didn't mind supporting her ambitious, manly husband. She didn't mind the wifely duties of cooking and ironing and cleaning, either. But she did mind that her virile husband was wasting all his sexual virility on a neighbor-instead of the wife that he insisted on treating like a china doll. It was up to her to change his mind, Marcia realized, to make her husband realize that she, too, was a woman and needed the same kind of wild and uninhibited sex that he was finding outside of their connubial bed. Marcia took action, all right-she went to work for the producer of a pornographic movie company.
CHAPTER ONE
Mike Jackson thought of himself a liberal guy. There was nothing he wouldn't do if the opportunity presented itself as long as it was legal. Legal, hell-as long as he didn't get caught. "Life," Mike was fond of saying to everyone except his wife, "Life is an experiment, an adventure."
He'd balled his way through high school and smoked grass, hash, coke, you-name-it better and more often than the other guys. He bet himself he'd lay all eight high school cheerleaders before mid-term his senior year and he did-even though one of the cheerleaders was a guy. It wasn't was tough as Mike thought it might be-all he had to do was hang around the locker room until he was alone with the guy. Mike knew the boy had a crush on him and one look at Mike's erect cock was all the boy needed to drop to his knees and wrap a hungry mouth around the throbbing penis. The girls on the cheerleading squad had not been quite so easy, Mike remembered. He had to court them, take them to the movies and a dance or two before they let him strip their shirts and bras off in the back seat of his Chevy convertible and ram his probing fingers into their cunts. Five of the seven were still virgins and the sore cock Mike endured was not as irritating as their overwhelming emotions for the man who broke their cherries. "I love you," all five of them said in their own clutching way and Mike let them know that nobody could tie him down. "Love," he thought, "what's love, anyway?"
He met Marcia, his doting wife, several years after he graduated, summa cum laude, with a degree in Business Administration. Mike knew he never wanted to give up the free life that he lived as a bachelor but he also knew that he wanted to take some gambles, build up a business, and he needed some security. Marcia was a top-notch secretary and her skills were always in demand. She made a steady income and Mike liked knowing he was free to hustle business here and there until he hit it big. Besides, Marcia was a good-looking woman, long-legged, broad-hipped, the way Mike liked his women. She was good enough in bed so long as Mike stayed in the missionary position.
Mike had grown up in Kansas, the only son of a fiercely religious farm family. He appreciated a woman who knew her place and kept it. He expected his wife to make a comfortable home, attend to meals and make it possible for him to pursue his dream of corporate success. So long as she was available for Mike's sexual pleasure once or twice a week, it was cool with him. He had plenty of opportunity for other varied pleasures as he tried to conquer the big business world of The Big Apple, New York City.
A typical day for Mike was to awaken to a steaming cup of coffee, brought to his bedside by Marcia, dressed and ready to go to her very proper secretarial job in downtown Wall Street. Once she had kissed him a fond and wifely goodbye, Mike would rise and take a long, warm shower. He hated cold water in the mornings. It reminded him of his boyhood, when his father found him at the sheep pen, his adolescent cock at ready.
He remembered his father's muscular way of lifting him off his feet, propelling him back to the farm house where young Mike was ordered to take a cold shower. He must have taken fifteen showers a week in those early days, Mike thought. Never again. Every morning, he let warm water run over his body and dreamed about the day he'd be so successful that his home town would hold a parade when he came back to visit.
"You ought to be a farmer like your Papa," his mother said time and again. "A respectable profession." She was a good woman, his mother, chaste, respectable, predictable. Like Mike's own wife, Marcia. "I'm a lucky man," Mike thought, "to have such a wife-a good, old-fashioned girl."
This morning, under the warm shower, Mike thought about the day ahead. A job appointment in the garment district. He didn't want to go. He was sure already that the job had no future-not the kind of future Mike wanted, anyway. Mike was twenty- six and he fully expected to have made a million by his thirtieth year.
Yesterday, he'd been offered a job with a New Jersey firm. "Start as a salesman," they advised him, "and work your way up. A smart young man like you." But Mike had no time for working his way up. He wanted to start at the top. This afternoon he had a meeting-another pipe dream, his father would say with two young men who'd discovered a new and faster method of imprinting t-shirts. T-shirts were the rage with all the kids, Mike thought, maybe this was the way to make his fortune.
Dressed in a shirt freshly ironed by Marcia and his new suit, bought on sale last fall, Mike strutted down the hall of the tenement building where he and Marcia lived. He was a little early, he thought, glancing at his watch. It's not good to arrive early for business appointments, makes you look too anxious. He thought he'd better kill a little time.
After several knocks, a sleepy voice came from behind the metal apartment door. "Who is it?" Mike grinned at the sound. She'd be warm and cuddly, half-awake, half-asleep, he liked her that way. "It's your friendly neighborhood mugger," he called through the door.
Janice opened it and peered at him through the chain. She'd been the Jackson's next-door neighbor for two years now and Mike's morning visits had been frequent. She unhooked the chain and let him in.
"You should have called first," she mumbled and yawned. "I was out late last night."
Mike peeked around the archway into the alcove bedroom. "But you're alone?" Better safe than sorry, he thought. He'd had his share of irate boyfriends and husbands.
"Yeah," Janice said and wandered sleepily back toward the bed. Mike followed, carefully taking off his tie and folding it. He unbuttoned his shirt carefully and hung it on the back of a chair. He stepped high to take off his pants, trying to preserve the crease. He laid them across the chair seat.
Janice's black and white mongrel cat immediately lept onto the pants.
"Get off!" Mike swung half-heartedly at the cat with his fist.
"Don't you hurt Samson," Janice called from the bed. "And come on, if you're coming. Otherwise, I'm going back to sleep."
"Oh, no you're not," Mike grinned and stripped off his jockey shorts. His cock was still flaccid. It embarrassed Mike for Janice to see it when it was soft. It looked so goddam small. Hell, she knew what it could do.
Janice took one long, slender finger and flicked at Mike's soft cock. "Say," she smiled, "you planning to do something with this thing?"
"Depends," Mike teased her, "on how well you do your job."
"You used to get it up just by looking at me," Janice pouted. "Am I losing my touch or is your tight-assed wife giving you more at home?"
"Cool it," Mike said fiercely. He wasn't kidding. Nobody talked about his wife. Marcia was a good woman, his woman and he protected her just as he would have protected his mother. They were a different breed, Mike thought, from Janice. Janice was, for Mike, a broad. So were most women. Marcia and his mother were rare, the kind of women a man dreamed about and protected when he found them. "My wife's none of your business."
"But this," ' Janice wiggled his soft cock again, "is my business, I suppose?"
Mike felt like slapping her, like pulling on his clothes and leaving her there. Then she'd be sorry, he thought, then she'd come crawling around. "Suck it, honey," he ordered, and took her head in his hands. He pushed her mouth toward his sleeping organ. "Suck it, baby, make it big enough to fuck you with."
Janice took the cock in her mouth, so soft it didn't excite her much at all. She often wondered why she put up with Mike. He was a bastard, he used her, if she got in his way, he'd drop her so hard she'd splinter all over the lower East Side. She continued to suck, to run her tongue around the tip of his prick, down the shaft, feeling it grow larger, stiffer in her mouth.
"That's it, baby," Mike mumbled, "Keep it up."
But Janice was listening. Her head was full of her own thoughts. She came to New York to be an actress. Voted Most Likely To Succeed of her high school graduating class, she'd played the leading role in the high school play and she dreamed of her name in lights on the marquee of a Broadway Theatre. Two years later, she knew now that it wasn't that easy. It wasn't easy at all. She waited tables at a Village restaurant in the evenings and studied acting in the afternoons. Once a week, she sat down with the trade papers and sent out her expensive pictures and resumes in hopes that someone would call her for an audition. She couldn't find an agent who would handle her career. "Call me when you're in a play," agents said to her. But if she didn't have an agent to get her a part in a play, how could she....? It was a vicious circle. Meanwhile, she continued to study, to keep trying, and most of all, to hold onto the dream. The constant rejection of trying to get work as an actress and being turned down seemed to make her need a lot more sex than she had needed before she came to New York. The local high school boys had never interested her although she necked and petted with them in the drive-in movies and on the night of the Junior-Senior Prom she'd let the local jock put his cock up in her with the promise he'd pull out before he came. He broke his promise but Janice pushed him off in time.
In New York City, every man that Janice met seemed to expect her to put out. She never really enjoyed it but it made the men happy-and for that period of time, while a man was fucking her and crying out her name, she felt that she was wanted, she was important. For that moment, she was somebody.
That was the reason she'd started letting Mike into her apartment every morning. He'd eyed her in the hallway and one day they waited together at the bus stop and he told her about his goal: hit it big, make a million. It could be done, Janice knew, because a boy from her home town had done it. He'd saved a couple of thousand dollars, bought some push-carts, hired some kids to sell bouquets of flowers from the carts and before you knew it, he had franchises in every big city in the mid-West.
Her father had sent a clipping from her home-town paper that told the whole story:
Boy Makes Good. It was possible for an ordinary guy to become a millionaire, a guy who was determined, smart and knew how to hustle, how to con. Mike looked like that kind of guy to her. Believing Mike would make it big, Janice felt important herself when he knocked on her door, his cock up and ready to fuck her. He wanted her. His desire for her, his need, gave her power.
He was up now and big. She took his cock in her hand and felt its throbbing as she shifted into position for him to fuck her. He liked to do it different ways. His wife, Janice suspected, was attached to the missionary position. She threw her legs over his shoulders and he mounted her, breathing hard.
"Tighten it for me," he mumbled, 'Squeeze it, baby."
She contracted the walls of her vagina, squeezing him, milking him as he pushed in, pulled out, pushed in, pulled out.
Her mind was wandering again. Maybe she should have stayed in her home-town, married the local heir to the hardware store, raised a pack of babies....
In and out, in and out, in and out.
Mike, even in his passion, sensed that she was wandering. Nothing made him angrier than a woman just-letting herself be fucked. Goddamit, the broad ought to be working at it, too. He pulled out suddenly.
Janice looked up at him, startled.
He smiled benevolently and took his cock in hand, rubbing it against the lips of her wet cunt, then sliding it down, between her buttocks, finding her tight asshole, pressing into it.
"Ow!"
He continued to smile and push. "That hurts, Mike!"
"Too bad, baby," Mike said, still grinning, "I want a tighter fit. Your cunt feels like the Holland Tunnel."
She cried out as he plunged with a forceful stroke into her bottom, the muscle giving way to accommodate him but providing a tight passage for his angry rod.
"You like it, baby?" He rammed his cock in and out, her soft buttocks slapping against it, providing a soft cushion for his hips. He held her legs tightly around his neck. There was little contact between them now, except for the battering rod slamming in and out her tender anus. If Mike closed his eyes, he could be back in the Army, sticking his cock through the glory hole of a latrine. He liked the anonymity of glory holes. He liked guessing who the fag was On the other side of the booth, never knowing for sure but guessing who of all his buddies was sucking his cock, greedily swallowing his jissum. All the guys in barracks D claimed to be tough guys-but everybody knew that someone was sucking off his buddies through the glory hole. Strangely, nobody ever tried to find out who. Having somebody on the other side of the glory hole, ready and eager to suck them off, was far more important than knowing who in the company was a fag. If they knew, they'd have to give the guy a hard time. Nobody wanted to do that.
"Keep sucking, buddy," Mike had said aloud before he realized that he wasn't at the glory hole in a latrine, he was fucking Janice, his neighbor's, lovely asshole. Mike didn't apologize. He never apologized for anything. He fucked harder, his hips and knees jerking at an incredible rate, so out of control that he couldn't fight Janice as she shoved him off.
He shot across the bed, his semen thick and milky across her blue-flowered sheets.
"Goddam, woman," he shouted, "what'd do that for?"
"Nobody," Janice said firmly, "is going to shoot off in my ass. Not even you, you egotistical sadist."
"Sonofabitch," he muttered and sat up, facing her, deciding whether to hit her or to make her suck him again and get it up. He hadn't come outside a cunt or a mouth since he was a boy. Oh, he masturbated now and then but to pull out early?-that was kid stuff.
'Get out of here," Janice said and stood up beside the bed. "Get your clothes on and get the hell out of here."
Mike was stunned. "What for?"
"Nobody," Janice said, asserting herself for the first time in a long time, "pushes me around like that. Nobody hurts me."
"Hurt you? You loved it." But Mike got up and went into the bathroom. He checked his watch. He'd have to rush to make the appointment. He doused his cock with water from the sink. That was the one thing he hated about ass-fucking, it was so damned messy. He wiped it dry on a hand towel and strutted back into the bedroom.
Janice sat in the bed, her knees drawn up to her chin, staring at him.
Mike considered the situation. He'd like to belt her one but, what the hell, he liked knowing she was just next-door and available when he wanted her. Marcia, his wife, never wanted to do it in the morning and she got up too early, anyway. Be smart, he advised himself, keep on her good side.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," he said. It wasn't really an apology, he told himself. It was just a statement. And it was true. He wasn't the kind of man who went around bruising women for the fun of it. Only when he thought they deserved it.
"Forget it," Janice said and stared at the wall.
Mike dressed quickly and started toward the door. "I'll see you tomorrow." He purposely said it as a statement, not a question. Never let a woman know you need her.
"Yeah," Janice said half-heartedly. "Make sure the door's locked when you leave."
She heard the door shut and the sound of the metal striking metal-the lock clicked closed. You couldn't be too careful in this neighborhood, she thought. There had been a battery of muggings, thefts and rapes.
Janice sat for a long time, staring out the window at the brick wall of the building next door, wondering why she didn't enjoy making it with Mike, wondering why she didn't enjoy making it with any of the men she'd met in New York City. And why did she keep trying it? Why did she keep needing the sound of someone wanting her, needing her. Something was wrong in Janice's life, something was terribly wrong. But Janice didn't know what-or what to do about it. She lay back in the back, wet with Mike's sweat and semen, and slept, dreaming fitfully about a place that warm, secure, happy-and nameless. A place where Janice was somebody important, a place where she belonged.
Mike walked cross-town, it was always faster than a bus. His long legs covered a block rapidly and he liked the exercise. Even the muddy air of New York City felt good in his lungs. He caught the Seventh Avenue Subway uptown.
Swinging from a strap on the crowded train, he saw an old man in a tattered grey suit look surreptiously around him, then carefully unzip his fly and expose his pitiful shriveled penis to a matronly and well-dressed little lady who was by the crowd in lose proximity.
"My god," thought Mike, "the damn thing's grey, grey like his hair." He almost touched his own pink cock beneath his properly creased trousers for reassurance. "I hope my cock doesn't get grey when I'm old." In fact, Mike had no intention of growing old. "Live fast," he frequently said, "die young and leave a handsome corpse."
The matron squealed and most heads turned toward her.
The old man grinned toothlessly and looked back at the crowd.
The matron continued to squeal.
"You'd think she never saw a cock before," Mike said to himself. "Maybe she didn't.
Maybe she's an old maid." Mike sized up the matron as respectable, the "right" kind of woman. He pushed his way toward her.
"Put it away, old man," Mike said, wedging himself between the "flasher" and the matron. "Put it away." He felt sorry for the old fellow.
"Thank you," the matron said gratefully, "thank you, sir."
Mike continued to stand between the old man and the matron as the subway pulled toward the 34th Street stop. He smiled like an any proper hero should but he looked at the matron's sturdy body, thick shoulders, heavy breasts and wondered what it would be like to make love to a fifty-five year old virgin. That was something he hadn't tried yet. Well, he didn't have time to try to make out with this one. He was late for his garment district appointment.
The man was Vice President of the firm. Mike knew he must be making fifty or a hundred grand a year but he was baffled by the shabby clothing, the "ordinary worker" attitude. As they toured the factory, the Vice President pointed out the cutting room, the designer's laboratory, the racks of discount "seconds" and he spoke to every working man as though he were a buddy. "Hi, Mac," he'd say and slap a Spanish rack-man on the shoulder, "How's it going?"
"Everybody," the Vice President said to Mike, "starts from the ground up. We want you to really know the business. You'll work a week on the racks, loading the trucks. You'll work a week sorting out the "seconds" and another week in the cutting room. You'll the business from the bottom up before you move into the accounting office."
"Fuck that," Mike said to himself, "Fat chance. You won't catch me out on the streets, sweating, pushing a rack of clothes." Out loud, he said, "I'm afraid I'm not interested. I'm really looking for something with more of a future."
The Vice President looked startled. "More future? There's plenty of future here. But you have to earn it."
The look on Mike's face must have told the Vice President that this young man had no intention of earning it-not in the long, hard way that this firm had in mind. "All right," the Vice President said formally, "Good day."
Mike had an hour to kill before he met the young men who'd invented a faster, cheaper way to imprint t-shirts. He walked down Seventh Avenue to Twenty-Second Street and took an elevator in an ornate office building up to the fifteenth floor.
The law firm, Ruggles, Ruggles, Rheingold and Ritter, was top-notch, high class, old world money. It was easy to tell that from the ornate gold-gilt lettering on the door, the deeply carpeted waiting room and the real leather lounge chairs that farted comfortably when you sat down in them.
"I'll tell Mrs. Jackson you're here," the receptionist said formally. Mike's wife was secretary to the senior lawyer of the firm and was treated with the respect due that position. "Please make yourself comfortable."
Marcia was delighted to see him. He reveled in the pride she showed whenever he dropped by her office unexpectedly to take her out to lunch. He knew she liked it when the other secretaries ogled him. He was a damned good-looking guy, he thought to himself, straightening his tie in the mirror over Marcia's desk.
They ate lunch at a quiet, dark basement restaurant and, as usual, Marcia listened as he talked.
"I didn't take the job," he explained about the garment district appointment. "It just wasn't good enough, no place to go. I'm worth a lot more than that."
Marcia looked disappointed. She liked being Mike's wife, she liked taking care of his clothes and cooking his meals-she even liked working-but she wished that Mike would find the right job, would settle down. It was embarrassing to explain to the people that she worked with that Mike was constantly unemployed. You could only say "He's between jobs" for so long-and she'd been saying it for three years now, even since she married him.
It was Mike's good looks that first attracted her. Who wouldn't turn their head and look at that slender six-footer, his mass of dark black curly hair, his navy blue eyes and that fringe of curly lashes. She envied those lashes. "It isn't fair," she said when they first met, "for a man to have those lashes." Mike's hands were wide and long and he loped with a casual, sexy gait that really turned Marcia on. She was surprised that on their first date he hadn't made a pass at her and that he never pressed her to sleep with him Until their wedding night. "He's an old-fashioned guy," she told her college room-mate. "He really respects women."
"That's not what I've heard," her roomie answered.
But it was clear to Marcia that Mike respected her, at least, and, apart from the fact that he never held a job, he was the perfect husband. Well, almost perfect. Marcia had not had a lot sexual experience before her marriage, she'd had some-enough to perk her interest. But what she experienced in her connubial relationship with Mike was certainly nothing to write home about. Once or twice a week, he'd tentatively approach her and, flat on her back, she'd receive him, wondering all the while if this was all there was. If so, she certainly thought that sex was over-rated. Mike was so tender with her, so gentle, so careful, as though she might break. And when he spoke during their love-making, he always called her, "My Madonna,"
"My angel wife."
She paid the check after their luncheon and watched Mike stride with his long legged steps toward his downtown meeting. She hoped that maybe this meeting would be what he was looking for, would be the opportunity for Mike to become as successful as he promised her he would. Not that she cared how successful he became-she'd be happy enough if he just had a job he enjoyed-but she knew that success was important, the most important thing, for Mike. There's be no happiness for him without it.
Marcia passed a seedy movie theatre as she walked back to her office. She glanced up at the marquee. "How To Please A Woman," the marquee read, "The Ultimate In Making Love." She wished she had the nerve to go inside. Maybe she'd learn something that would make her marital love-life more exciting.
Mike climbed five flights of stairs to meet the young men in their West Greenwich Village loft. He knew as soon as they opened the door that they were fags. He hated knowing it. He didn't mind getting blown by a guy but he didn't dig any guy who minced around.
"Hello," the short, plump fellow said and extended his pink palm. "I'm Freddy."
Freddy, Mike thought, was a mincer.
"This," Freddy continued, "is Georgie."
Mike grabbed George's hand and gave it a hard, firm shake. George responded with an equally tight grip. George, Mike sized him up, was no mincer.
"Okay," Mike said, "Let's see what you've got here."
The young men eagerly explained their new process for imprinting t-shirts.
"It takes half the machinery," Freddy enthused, his high voice an irritant on Mike's eardrums, "and one person can operate it."
"Double the profit," George added.
Mike grinned. "Double the profit, double the fun."
"It'll only take four grand to set us up," George said, displaying a prospectus, "and that includes local advertising."
Mike's business administration schooling enabled him to size up the profit margin easily.
"We could put everybody else in this field out of the business," he grinned. "Sure," George said.
"Can you get the money?" Freddy shifted his weight from foot to foot eagerly, in expectation.
Mike saw his million dollars-if he could only handle it right-if he could get the four grand-if he could get the business into operation and squeeze out the two fags-
"Sure," Mike said and shook their hands again, "No problem. We're in business."
Alone in the loft, George and Freddy celebrated.
"Break out the grass," Freddy exclaimed and nuzzled George's neck, "We've found ourselves a rich man."
George rolled a joint and lit it.
"And he's good-looking, too," Freddy mused.
"Look," George said solemnly, "But don't touch."
"My mother always said it was just easy to love a rich man as a poor man," Freddy smiled.
"You really think you could get along without old George?" George unbuttoned his navy pants and displayed a cock a full foot long. "I hope you realize that one of these doesn't come along every day."
George stroked his long rod until it stood erect, blood-red and throbbing.
He pushed Freddy back onto the bare floor and, kneeling between Freddy's plump thighs, George unzipped the blue jeans and pulled them down Freddy's legs, dropping them in a pile on the floor. George grinned at Freddy, remembering the first time he had taken him on a bare floor just like this, at a frat house party. The dorm mother had discovered them, George mounting Freddy for the first time, and had them both expelled. Until that fateful event, George had counted on a sizeable allowance from his conservative and wealthy parents. But after their son had been expelled from Princeton for "Unnatural acts", George's allowance had been cut off and his name removed from the family will. The hell with them, he thought, Freddy and I will make our money, we'll show them all.
George spit on his hand, never taking his eyes off Freddy's cherubic face, and wet his rampant cock. Twelve inches was a long to take and George had never found a girl with room enough for all of it. But Freddy's asshole gobbled it up and wanted more. George put his prick in place at the head of the small opening and drove it in hard. Freddy screamed in delight. He loved George-but most of all, he loved George's enormous cock. Freddy wondered, as George pumped the huge prick in and out of his ass, if Mike Jackson's cock was big enough to please him.
Janice sat at her dining table-a piece of wood she'd picked up on the street, set atop two milk crates-and systematically stapled resumes to the back of her 8 x 10 glossy photographs. Two hundred dollars worth of photographs and resumes, she figured, went out every six months. That was a lot of waitressing to make that money. And for what? Janice was glum at that thought. She sent out all these pictures and no one called her for auditions, no one cast her in a movie or a play. She'd tried to get work as a model but she was too short, too well-developed. Models shouldn't have full breasts or hips and Janice had both.
She heard Mike's footsteps coming up the stairs, past her apartment to his own. She heard the key in his lock and the sound of the door slamming behind him. Soon, she knew, his wife would come home, too, and later on, Janice would hear the sound of pots and pans and smell a dinner cooking. She wished someone would cook for her-or that she had someone to cook for. But certainly not that bastard, Mike. Who, then?
Janice thought of all the men she'd been with in her life. Who had turned her on the most? She'd been fucked in the back of cars, in beds of course and once in the men's room of a movie house. She'd been fucked in the cunt, in the ass, in the mouth, by large cocks and small, circumcised and uncircumcised, by mean men and gentle men, by teenagers and middle-aged, pot-bellied men who'd promised to help her with her career and didn't. Once their cock comes, Janice thought, their generosity goes.
The most exciting fuck of all, Janice remembered, was during the first summer she lived in New York City. It was at a party when, half-stoned, she watched a strange young man push gently in between her legs and, pushing her bikini panties aside, lick her soft, blonde pussy. His tongue darted in between the labia and found her clitoris and moved incessantly until she was delirious with wanting him. Or was it him she wanted? She couldn't remember the face of the strange young man at all.
What she did remember was the face of a young woman, dark and sensuous, who stood and watched and smiled. She remembered wondering what it would feel like to kiss those full lips, to feel that gentle, pink tongue between her legs. She chastised herself for such thoughts. Even now, she felt guilty, remembering-remembering the incredible, seizing climax she's attained while looking into the dark girl's eyes-but not so guilty that she stopped her eager hand from searching out her clitoris and touching it until it grew hard and large, large as the end of her thumb.
Janice leaned back in her chair and propped one leg up on the table, not caring that her shoe left a black smudge on one of her pictures and resumes. She ran her hand up under the panties that she wore and sank her fingers deep into the warm wetness of her cunt. In and out she moved her fingers, making sure with every stroke that she touched her clit and kept it aching and alert. She slid forward in her chair and with her other hand slipped an eager finger into her asshole, moving it quickly in a circular motion. The need grew greater, so intense that Janice removed her fingers from inside her cunt and roughly, desperately massaged her swelling clit. She wished that she had four hands, no, five. She wanted to be in her cunt, up her ass, rubbing her clit and both her tits at the same time. She groaned loudly, not wondering if the neighbors heard, and as she swelled to an exploding climax, she saw the sensuous face of the dark girl at that long-ago party and Janice cried out loud to the imagined presence of this girl, "I love you!"
She sat for a moment, quietly, embarrassed. Although no one saw her, Janice felt as though her cry for the lovely, dark girl, whose name she never knew, was indication that she was, indeed, unnatural. Perhaps, she thought, that's why no man has ever really turned me on. And then she was seized with panic at the thought and vowed that she would try harder to find a man who satisfied her.
Tomorrow, she promised herself, Mike'll get a fucking like he never had before.
Over supper, Mike, a natural con man, moved easily into the subject of cashing in Marcia's saving bonds.
"We'll make a million," he promised his dismayed wife.
"But honey," she protested, "those bonds were given to me by my grandfather. It was his life's savings. I promised him, before he died, that I would only use those bonds to educate his grandchildren. We don't even have a baby yet."
"You let me put that money to work for us," Mike insisted, "and you can quit that job and have a dozen kids, if that's what you want. I'm only doing what's best for both of us, you know that."
Marcia had been raised to let the man make decisions about the family finances and although it was against her better judgment, she rummaged until she found the bonds and signed them over to her husband.
"Kiss poverty goodbye," Mike said that night as he gently climbed into the !'of her crotch. "I'm going to make you the wife of a millionaire."
His cock was relatively large and stretched Marcia's little used channel. Mike liked the tightness of it and was sometimes tempted to pull out the stops and really ride her-but he made himself remember that she was his wife and he must show respect. He humped her gently, slowly until he came. It had never occurred to Mike to wonder if she came. In the uptight farm town Mike came from, only loose women came.
Afterwards, he snuggled into the long brown hair that tumbled from her scalp onto her shoulders and said, "I'm so lucky. You're a wonderful wife."
But Marcia, feeling a queasiness, a vague unrest she didn't understand, only stared up at the ceiling and wondered if this really was all there was to making love.
Mike thought her quietness was contentment and he rolled over on his back and stared at the dark ceiling, fantasizing all the money that he'd make on the fags invention and even fantasizing the ways in which he could degrade them before he squeezed them out of the business.
He'd make the butch one, George, suck his cock until it stood straight out and then he'd make George spread the fat buttocks of his faggot lover and place Mike's stiff rod at the entrance. Yes, Mike thought, smiling to himself, I'll make the butch one hold his partner's legs apart while I fuck him in the ass. Mike touched his penis, tired now and ready to rest the night, and wondered if the fat fag had ever seen a cock so big.
At the Come Together restaurant and discotheque in Greenwich Village, Janice, in her short-skirted uniform, was waitressing. The crowd was overflowing. It was spring and in spring, everybody's fancy . ... Janice looked at the couples, necking at tables and pressing bodies against one another on the dance floor. She wondered if this was all there is to love? The face of the dark girl flitted through her mind and she quickly pushed it away and concentrated on her order pad, writing out the dinner orders clearly, much more clearly than necessary. The kitchen was accustomed to waitress's scribbling but writing each item fully and spelling out each word kept Janice from thinking about that face, that beautiful, sensuous dark face.
"Hey, babe," a customer said, touching her shoulder. "What'cha doing after work tonight?"
Janice looked around. He was about thirty-five, probably a business man from out of town. She knew the type. He had four kids and a wife and a ranch style home. He was a deacon of the Presbyterian Church and a member of the Rotary Club. And whenever he got to make an out of town business trip, he fucked every piece of ass that he could get his hands on.
Ordinarily, Janice would have said No, Get Lost Buster, but tonight-tonight she'd do anything to get rid of the dark girl's face, to prove that she was all woman, a man's woman, normal, natural.
"Sure," she said, smiling at the out of towner. "I'll be finished here at two a.m."
"I'll be back," he promised and leered at her ample bosoms. Like a naughty little boy, he tweaked the nipple of her left breast.
"Save it all for me," he said and left.
At two a.m., he was back, all right, and she took him home to her East Village apartment.
"Jesus," he said, "you really live like this?"
"It's not bad for New York," she defended herself, "this is an expensive town."
The out of town guy was clearly uncomfortable at Janice's bohemian surroundings, the beanbag chair, the plywood table, the undone dishes in the sink, the ruffled sheets on the bed, the toilet that flushed by pulling a chain, the bathtub in the kitchen.
But he bravely closed his eyes to all of it once he mounted Janice in the bed, plunging in and out and saying all the things that he never dared to say to his wife back home in Illinois.
"Take it, baby, take my big cock in your hot cunt, let me explode inside your pussy, baby, then I'm going to suck your cunt and fuck you in the ass...."
But Janice didn't hear him. She was thinking of the dark, sensuous face of a strange young woman she'd seen once so long ago.
CHAPTER TWO
At the law office the next morning, Marcia feeling jumpy. She was not at all sure that her husband had made the right decision in cashing the bonds that her grandfather had left her. She wondered if somehow grandfather knew that she had allowed Mike to take the old man's life savings and convert it into cash for a business gamble. Oh, of course, Mike said it was no gamble, it was a sure thing, but Marcia had seen Mike's sure things before. There was the time he took the money she had saved for their summer vacation to Bermuda and invested it in a concession that candy-coated peaches and put them on a stick. She never saw that money again. And the time Mike invested her Christmas bonus in a sure-fire Broadway hit that folded in Philadelphia. Marcia knew there weren't any ghosts-but just the same, she felt badly about her grandfather and hoped that, if a dead man could know what was happening with the living, at least he would forgive her.
Her boss had flown to Europe for the week to close a corporate merger and Marcia was without any work to do except to answer the executive suite telephones and take messages. She bought a copy of a woman's magazine on her way into work that morning. On the front, the title that interested her: "Are you getting everything there is to get out of your marriage?" She paged through the magazine until she found the article.
"A good husband," the article said, "is a good lover and can provide his wife with multiple climaxes during each love-making session."
Marcia smiled. Of course she knew what a climax was-but she had never had one. She'd read an article, just before her marriage, written by a clergyman who said a good wife never thinks of her own pleasure. A good wife must please her husband and receive her gratification from his happiness. Marcia had really tried to do that but something still seemed wrong. She was happy when Mike exploded inside her body and rolled onto the bed, relaxed and smiling with relief-but it didn't erase the unsatisfied urging of her own body.
In college, Marcia's roommate had masturbated. It shocked Marcia at first, seeing another girl naked, her hand rubbing fiercely between her legs.
"Try it," her roommate urged. "I'll show you how."
Marcia laughed it off but actually she was shocked at the thought of another girl seeing her in such a vulnerable position. Alone in the bathroom, Marcia locked the door and tried to imitate the motions of her roommate but she had no experience and little knowledge of anatomy and the results were not successful or even pleasurable.
Marcia had never tried to masturbate again.
"A woman's orgasm," the article in the woman's magazine continued, "can last for several minutes and every woman is capable of attaining many orgasms during any love-making session."
Marcia moved uncomfortably against the leather cushion of her secretarial chair. She felt uneasy, almost the same way that she felt after a love-making session with her husband, Mike.
She closed the magazine and pushed back the desk chair. Picking up a sweater from the closet and hanging her shoulder bag across her arm, she walked to the receptionist's desk in the front of the massive offices.
"Agnes," Marcia said, "I'm going for a walk. I feel a little restless and it's such a lovely spring day."
"Hell," Agnes whispered back as though someone could hear them in the empty waiting room, "take the day off. The old man's out of town and nobody'll know the difference."
Marcia smiled at her friend, Agnes. Agnes, homely as a post, had a heart as big as the great outdoors. Someday, Marcia kept telling Agnes, the right guy will come along and appreciate you.
"Thanks, Aggie," Marcia said, "Maybe I'll do that."
She walked across the Avenue and downtown a few blocks. In the park, she watched an old woman walk her dog. That dog, Marcia thought, is as old as the woman. Marcia wondered if she'd have that kind of gentle, lined face when she grew old. The old woman's face was filled with smile lines.
A group of children played nearby and Marcia watched them, wondering if Mike made his million on this business gamble, if they would have children. Mike never seemed to really want them.
She opened the magazine again and tried to read but she was uncomfortable on the wooden bench and shifted her weight from buttock to buttock. Finally she stood up and wandered through the paths. Behind a statue of a Civil War General, Marcia saw a young couple in the throes of passion. The girl wore a blue work shirt and her blue jeans were crumpled in a pile nearby. The boy's khaki work pants were loosened at the waist and his blood-filled cock dipped in and out of the young girl's gasping cunt.
Marcia stood and stared as the girl clawed the boy's back and talked aloud.
"Give it to me, honey, fill me up, shoot it in me."
Marcia had never heard a female saying words like that before. It shocked her but it also seemed to aggravate the uncomfortable, uneasy feeling she'd been having. She sat on the edge of a park bench and pressed her crotch hard against the wood.
"I want to feel it, baby," the girl continued, "make me feel your prick, give me all of it, every goddamned inch of your hot cock, slam it in me, come in me, come in me, now, now, NOW!"
The girl screamed the last word and her body heaved upward, the boy seemed to be hanging on, riding a bucking bronco. Then all motion stopped and the girl relaxed, her head turning in the direction of Marcia. She opened her eyes and saw that they had an audience.
"Jesus Christ," the girl said and pushed the boy off her.
"Huh?" The boy rolled on his side, not understanding.
Marcia jumped up quickly and ran to the other side of the fountain, out of sight.
"Christ," the girl said, standing up, the sun lighting the wet pubic hairs between her naked legs, "there's just no privacy anymore."
The boy continued to sit cross-legged on the ground, his cock erect.
"Blow me, honey," he said, "I didn't come yet."
She looked down at him.
"Okay, okay," she sighed and squatted beside him, taking his erect phallus in her hand. Before she put her mouth to it, she looked up again.
"What'd you say your name was, kid?"
Marcia walked hurriedly up the Avenue, feeling a strange, queasy nagging in the pit of her stomach, an ache that extended from her groin to the center of her female parts between her legs.
She saw the sleazy movie house and stared up at the marquee.
"I ought to go back to the office," she said to herself, "I'm being paid for being at the office."
Bound as she was by her inbred puritan ethics, Marcia found herself at the movie box office, buying a ticket.
"You alone, honey?"
Marcia didn't even hear the ticket taker. It was as though someone else were doing these things, not her. She was moving automatically, urged on by the ache between her legs.
In the cool, dark movie house, Marcia sank gratefully into a seat and stared blindly at the screen. It was not until she saw the mouth of a handsome, black male licking avidly between the legs of a Swedish, leggy blonde that Marcia was conscious of where she was.
She stared intently.
Mike had never done that to her. She was sure that Mike didn't know that people did that kind of thing. It certainly wasn't anything a normal person would do-or would they?
She remembered that the title of this movie was "How To Please A Woman"-and she was a woman, wasn't she?
She stirred in her seat and her arm brushed against her breast. She felt her nipple harden, tighten.
Quietly, secretly, as though she were being watched, Marcia slipped her hand beneath her blouse, inside the lace bra that she always wore and fingered her hardening nipple.
She squeezed it, rubbed it, pulled it and the pain between her legs grew greater.
Her other hand, as if it had a life of its own, found its way inside the elasticized waist band of her slacks. Between her legs, her fingers as though they had been there often and knew just what to do.
She envisioned Mike's head between her legs, just like the black man on the screen, now buried in the fleshy thighs of the Swedish actress who twisted and moaned.
Marcia found the seat of pleasure between her legs, the right spot, the perfect place and her fingers moved with natural rhythm to bring her to crescendo.
Her moan was louder than the soundtrack's sexual sounds and a man, two rows down, turned to look back at her.
She realized that the man must know what she was doing and she adjusted her clothing quickly-but not quickly enough, the man was sliding out of his row and coming toward her up the aisle.
She stood up quickly and tried to move away but the man was quicker and his hand closed around her arm.
"Here, honey," he said, grinning toothlessly, "feel a real one."
Marcia screamed and pulled away from him, running up the aisle and through the lobby toward the street.
The ticket taker grinned as he watched her racing down the Avenue. He looked over at the box-office and shrugged.
"You'd think we was showing a horror film," he laughed to the man in the box office.
When Janice awoke the next morning in her East Village apartment, the out of towner was gone.
"At least," she thought, wandering to the front door, "he had the good sense to make sure the door was locked."
She had made herself a cup of instant coffee and was staring at the brick wall of the neighboring building before she realized that a fifty dollar bill lay on the table.
My god, she thought, the guy thought I was a hooker!
Janice picked up the fifty dollar bill and fingered it. It took her two nights to make that much at the restaurant.
Maybe I ought to be a hooker, she thought for a moment-but only for a moment. Her small-town upbringing stopped that thought mid-stream. "It'd kill my mother and father."
But, she reasoned, on the other hand-mom and dad wouldn't exactly be delighted about her giving away her body, either.
Well, it was something to think about.
Downtown at George and Freddy's loft, Mike signed an agreement, his name above theirs in a bold script.
"Looks like we're in business, boys," he said.
Freddy stared openly at Mike's crotch. "He wears his pants too loose," Freddy said to himself, "who can tell the size of his meat?"
George saw Freddy's downward look.
"Behave yourself, sweetheart," he said out loud.
Mike looked puzzled.
"Your new business partner here," George said, indicating Freddy, "is sizing up your business, if you know what I mean."
Mike glanced down at his own crotch.
"It works," he said.
"I'll bet," Freddy grinned. He loved George, but oh you kid.
"Wanna suck it off?"
"Hold on, buster," George said, "that's my boy."
"We're partners," Mike grinned. "Share and share alike."
George sized up the six-foot man. He was built, all right, but George had figured him for straight all the way. Square. "You swing?"
Mike punched George lightly on the shoulder.
"Buddy, I do anything that gets me off." George patted Mike's tight ass. "Okay, partner, I don't mind a three way swing."
Mike pulled away.
"Hold it, buddy. Don't get any wrong notions, I'm no fag. If the kid here wants to blow me, that's one thing...."
George stepped back and stared at Mike. He'd run into this kind before. The super-straight man. If he just gets blown, he can't consider himself a fag. George wanted nothing so much as to fuck this straight guy's asshole but he tried to reason with himself that the man was now a business partner. Pushing his foot-long schlong up this straight man's ass might queer the whole deal. Better humor him.
"All right," George said, "I'll let my boy blow you. I'd like to see what you've got hanging between your legs, anyway."
Mike unzipped his fly and took his half-erect rod in hand proudly.
"How about that? Bet that turns you on, huh?"
Freddy grinned and winked at George. "Well," Mike said, "Go to it, baby."
Freddy dropped to his knees and took the partially limp prick in his hands. He rolled it between his palms and licked the tip end like a lollipop.
"Come on," Mike said manfully, "Get down to business."
"I'm doing this," Freddy said, "if you don't like the action, get yourself another cocksucker."
Mike glanced at George who was standing, hands on hips, watching his lover suck another man's cock. Something about George told Mike he shouldn't fool with him, shouldn't push him. George had biceps nearly as big as Mike's and although he was not as tall as Mike, he was tough and wiry. Mike had rolled enough fags in the service to know that a fag could be as strong as any regular guy.
"Freddy knows just what he's doing," George said, "don't rush him."
Suddenly Freddy seemed to open up his throat and Mike's throbbing prick slid deep inside. Freddy's tongue moved in a steady, maddening rhythm up and down the shaft.
"Jesus!" Mike grabbed Freddy's ears and started fucking the faggot's throat.
Freddy could hardly breath so rough was Mike. The big man jammed his ruby cock in and out, in and out, deep, deeper-Freddy thought it was going to bust right through his neck.
George was about to grab Mike's shoulders and pull him off when the erect cock spurted, emptied into Freddy's belly and a limp prick slid, completely wilted, from Freddy's full pink lips.
Mike cleared his throat.
"You're all right, kid," he said and lightly boxed Freddy on the ear.
"You bet he is," George said defensively.
"We'll meet tomorrow," Mike said business-like as he zipped up his fly," And get this business on the road."
He got home a full two hours before Marcia was expected and knocked at Janice's door. Mike felt cocky, successful, full of himself. He was on the very brink of real success.
Janice let him in, reluctantly. She didn't feel like putting up with Mike today. She had too much on her mind.
"I'm in business, baby," he said, "I'm on my way to make a million."
"Sure," Janice answered and opened up the icebox. "I guess you want a beer."
Mike popped open the can and drank thirstily.
"Hey," he said, "maybe I'll use you to model the t-shirts. Stick with me, baby, I'll make you a star."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Janice sat in a beanbag chair, her hipster jeans exposing the flat belly above them and her navel seemed to wink at Mike seductively as she rocked back and forth, listening.
He told her the entire plan.
Next door, in Mike and Marcia's apartment, Marcia lay quietly on the bed trying to think about nothing, trying to forget the sordid scene in the dirty movie house, trying to forget the leering face of the toothless man who grabbed her arm, trying to forget what she had done to herself. But she couldn't escape the picture of the black man, his mouth hungrily moving across the flame pink pussy lips of the Swedish actress.
Marcia forced herself not to touch her own still-hungry cunt. She held her hands together, clasped across her waist, trying to keep her eager fingers from finding their desired niche between her legs.
Her first climax, the first time she had left her hungry body and soared to heights unknown to her before. She wanted to do it again, now.
"A woman is capable of multiple climaxes," the magazine had said.
She could keep herself from doing it no longer.
Standing up, Marcia stood in front of the full-length mirror and dropped, piece by piece, her clothing.
Next door, Mike had finished with his story of How Mike Jackson Is Going To Become a Millionaire and was kneeling between Janice's well-shaped legs, kissing her bare midriff.
Janice untied her halter top, looking down at the raven curls of the male whose tongue licked and teased her midriff. She bared her large breasts, the nipples erect with physical desire and guided Mike's head upward toward them.
He fingered one nipple roughly and sucked fiercely on the other, nibbling and squeezing until Janice called out, "Stop, you're hurting me, Mike."
He continued to suck but took his hand away and used all ten fingers to unfasten the tight blue jeans Janice wore and pull them down, following their progress toward the floor with his mouth, burying his face in her wet cunt, pressing his stiff tongue into her hole.
Janice was feeling something, was feeling desire and she welcomed it. She was normal, she assured herself as Mike ate her, sucking and teasing her twat until she was groaning with desire.
"Take your cock out, Mike," she screamed, "take your prick out now and shove it up me, fuck me hard, make me take it all, fuck me, Mike!"
Mike's rod was stiff again and he released it from his pants and drove it up Janice's pulsing cunt, pulling her down .onto the floor and fucking her as though all the success in the world, the success that Mike so coveted, was buried deep in Janice's cunt. Only with his prick could he get hold of it. He drove into her deeper, deeper, deeper.
"Don't stop, Mike," she screamed, "for god's sake, don't stop!"
Marcia lay on the bed in the next apartment, rubbing her own breasts, moving her legs together in anticipation of the touch of her fingers on her throbbing clit when she heard it through the wall-
Her husband's name!
Marcia stopped and listened.
"That's silly," she said to herself, "I know there is a young girl who lives next door. Perhaps she has a boyfriend named Mike."
And then she heard his voice.
"Take it all, you cunt," Marcia could hear his voice clearly, "Take every inch of my big cock, take it up your cunt, take it up your ass!"
It was his voice, her husband's voice. Marcia's body still quivered with desire-but her eyes were filled with tears at the thought of Mike making love to another woman. Of course she knew that men were supposed to fool around but somehow she never thought that Mike would do that. He was such a perfect husband in most ways.
Mike had pulled out of Janice's steaming cunt and shoved his prick, at its full length and size now, into her ass.
It wasn't painful like it had been the day before. She was ready for him, excited, open, ready to take it in.
She reached between her legs as he was fucking, faster, faster, coming to the culmination, and rubbed her twat, pulling her clitoris to aid her climax.
"Not yet," Mike whispered fiercely, "Hang on, baby, not quite yet."
He pulled out of her ass, which seemed to grasp and clutch at the removed and absent penis. Mike plunged his cock into her vagina once again and moved it slowly.
"Hurry," Janice begged, "Hurry, Mike, I need it, I want it! Fuck me!"
How wonderful it is, she thought, I am going to come with him, I am going to enjoy this, I am normal, after all.
Mike moved his hips a little faster. He enjoyed making her wait for it. He liked it best when broads were begging for his cock.
"Now, please, Mike!"
He let her have it, he really banged her, this is a broad, he thought to himself, who is going to know that she's been fucked.
He shouted, "Here I come, baby, take it, here I come, I'm coming deep into your cunt!" and he unloaded what felt to him like a quart of semen into the deep well of her pussy.
Marcia listened through the wall, tears streaming down her cheeks and her body crying out to hear those words from her husband, her husband who treated her as though she were made of precious crystal. "Oh, Mike," she thought, "I want you to fuck me like that."
As Mike unloaded into her body, Janice closed her eyes. She was at the top now, at the heights. She kept her own forefinger moving on her clit as Mike drove his final blast. Coming, she thought happily, coming with a MAN, I am normal, I am, I am-and at the crucial moment when bliss exploded throughout her body and lifted her to those heights of sexual ecstasy, the kind of climax Janice seldom reached, she saw again before her the smiling sensuous face of the dark, beautiful girl, the stranger she could not forget and she had to bite her lips hard to keep from crying out, "I love you!"
And she knew as the male body pulled out of her cunt, leaving her empty, void, that those words were not meant for Mike. That the incredible climax she had just reached was not Mike's. It belonged to the dark stranger, the face that haunted Janice night and day.
Mike was usually exhausted after such a climax but today, on the brink of success, he lept up, ready to start all over. He glanced down at his watch. Dammit, he thought, Marcia will be home soon.
"Sorry, baby," he said to Janice, "I haven't got time for another round."
He dressed without washing. Marcia wouldn't know the difference. His wife Mike thought, is so damn pure and innocent, she wouldn't know a sex smell from the smell of lilacs.
"Keep it hot, honey," Mike said and squeezed Janice's still bare and hot pussy, "I'll be back."
As he unlocked the door of his own apartment, he smelled the pungent cunt juice on his hand and smiled.
Marcia's sweater and her purse were on the hallway table. She was already home. The subway must be moving faster, Mike thought and went into the living room to look for her.
He saw her naked body on the bed through the archway and walked hesitantly into the room. Marcia hardly even let him see her naked, they were always private with each other. The kind of respect that Mike's mother had taught that a man should have for his wife.
"What's wrong, honey?" Maybe, he thought, she's sick. There's a virus going around.
Marcia stared at him with eyes still tearing.
"Hey, sweetheart," he walked to the edge of the bed, "What's the matter?"
"Take your cock out, Mike, take your prick out now and shove it up me, fuck me hard, make me take it all, fuck me, Mike."
She said it quietly, without emotion.
For a minute, Mike thought he'd gone mad.
"Don't stop, Mike, for god's sake, don't stop. Hurry, hurry, Mike, I need it, I want it, fuck me."
Suddenly he understood. He remembered those were Janice's words, those were the words she just had said to him as he fucked her in the apartment next door.
Marcia had heard it all.
"Oh, sweetheart," he began, "Listen, it wasn't what you thought. A man has got to do things sometime that he can't do with his wife. You understand, don't you, that I respect you."
Marcia stared at him and repeated it. "Take your cock out, Mike, take your prick out now and shove it up me, fuck me hard, make me take it all, fuck me, Mike."
He still didn't understand.
Only when his wife sat up and reached out for his fly, unzipped it and removed his penis, did he understand.
She took it in her mouth.
"Oh, no, honey," he protested, "no, not you. You shouldn't have to do that, honey."
She cupped his balls in her hands and massaged them gently.
"Marcia," he commanded, "stop it."
She let his prick fall from her mouth and took his testicles, one by one, into her mouth, bathing, rubbing them with her hot tongue.
"Stop it!"
He couldn't stand it, looking down at her, his wife, sucking on his balls. She was too pure, too good. He pulled away.
"Goddamit, Marcia, have you gone crazy?"
She reached for him again.
He turned suddenly and slapped her.
"That's for your own good," he said fiercely. "No wife of mine is going to behave like a slut."
Marcia's eyes welled again with tears as she watched her husband storm into the bathroom and slam the door.
What was she doing wrong? Why couldn't her husband enjoy her the way he obviously enjoyed the girl who lived next door?
Was it wrong to kiss her husband's penis?
Was it wrong to want Mike's strong jaw between her legs, sucking and manipulating the core of her pleasure, bringing her to the kind of climatic pleasure she had enjoyed at the movie theatre today?
She didn't know, she was confused.
Marcia hurriedly pulled her clothes on and had grabbed her pocketbook and sweater and left the apartment before Mike came out of the bathroom.
He called her, "Marcia!"
There was no answer.
Like a mad man, he threw open closet doors, ran into the hallway and down the stairs, calling out her name.
"Marcia!"
But she was gone from sight. He walked the streets for hours, looking for her.
Mike, after all, was a man who looked out for his wife. He had to find her. She was far too innocent to be wandering the streets of New York City's East Village.
At midnight, she had not shown up and Mike walked to the West side and ordered a drink at the bar of the Come Together discotheque.
"I've got trouble," he told Janice as she hurried through the crowd, waiting on tables, "I need somebody to talk to."
"Sorry, Mike," she said. "Talk to the mirror in the men's room. I'm busy as a one-armed paperhanger and I damned sure don't want to hear about your wife."
Marcia was sitting on a bench down by the waterfront.
She knew it was dangerous for a woman alone in that neighborhood, Mike had warned her many times.
It didn't seem to matter any more, nothing mattered if Mike was gone.
She didn't even hear the young man walk up behind her.
"Don't be frightened," he said softly.
She stiffened at his voice.
"I'm not a muggist or a rapist," he walked around the bench into her sight.
A young man, bearded, his eyes full of mischief and life.
"It's not safe for you to be down here by yourself," he scolded her.
"I know," Marcia said, "but I don't care."
"Oh-oh," the young man said, "the lady's got the blues."
"You're right," Marcia smiled up at him. He seemed to be a nice young man, not dangerous.
"Want to talk about it?"
"I'm afraid," Marcia said, "I'll bore you to death."
The young man laughed and sat beside her.
"I don't bore easily," he said gently and took her hand, "come on, talk."
It didn't make sense, Marcia thought, telling the story of her sex life to a perfect stranger but he didn't seem the least bit threatening or intimidating and she began to talk.
He leaned back, as though he were listening to a recording and never interrupted once.
"I'd like to talk to you about a job," he said when she finished.
"A job?" Marcia was stunned. Here she was, telling a perfect stranger about the most personal part of her life and he was talking about jobs.
"I'm a movie producer," he said easily.
"Really?"
Marcia was impressed, although she wasn't sure she believed him. Movie producers, Marcia thought, should have big bellies and smoke long cigars.
"X Rated Stuff," he continued.
Marcia realized he meant the kind of movie that she had seen that very afternoon.
She was surprised that such a sweet young man was involved in that kind of business-but she had to admit, that she was interested.
"What kind of job?"
"I need a secretary," the young man said simply, "type, take shorthand, transcribe notes, type up manuscripts, answer phones, the usual thing. You're just the kind of woman I've been looking for."
Marcia laughed aloud. Mike would explode into a million pieces if he knew that she were working for a pornographic filmmaker.
Well, she reasoned to herself, why does he have to know?
"What are the hours?"
"Usually 9 to 5," the young man said, "a regular office. Sometimes, I guess, I might want you to work overtime."
"And what's the salary?"
The young man grinned.
"I'll match what you're making now."
Marcia laughed and squeezed his hand.
"Okay, you've made a deal."
"I guess you'll need to know that my name's Lance Fisher and my office is at Madison and 30th Street."
"I'll see you at nine tomorrow morning."
"It's a deal," Lance stood up as she left.
"Be careful going home."
"Oh, I will," Marcia called back. He should only know how careful. She didn't want anything to happen to her now-not now. She felt as though she were on the brink of learning what life was all about.
At last.
CHAPTER THREE
Mike walked the streets of the East Village for several hours before he went, in desperation, to the local Police Station.
"Hey, Roy," shouted the desk sergeant, "some guy's lost his wife."
"If she's good looking, I'll go look for her, " Roy, a uniformed patrolman, hollered back.
"I'm not in the mood for jokes," Mike said fiercely, "I'm concerned about my wife."
"Sorry, mister," the desk sergeant replied, "we haven't seen her and we can't consider her a missing person for forty-eight hours. If she hasn't shown up by then, give us a call."
Mike usually thought of Marcia as a possession, his wife, his property-but as he searched the alleys and deserted streets of his neighborhood, he realized how much he missed her, needed her, loved her.
He remembered her behavior in the bedroom earlier that evening. He was shocked, of course, but then he must remember that she was shocked, too. He had every reason to believe that Marcia had heard every word of the hot and heavy sex scene he had that evening with Janice, the girl next door. Of course Marcia was shocked, any wife would be-any good woman would be. And Mike's wife Marcia was a good woman by his standards.
He slowly climbed the stairway to their walk-up apartment, hoping, praying that she would be there, cuddling the pillow with one arm as she always slept. Mike thought his wife looked like a very little girl when she was sleeping, all her innocence, her goodness showed then.
Through the archway from his living room, he saw her. Her body curved into an embryo, her arm nestling the pillow, sound asleep.
"Goddamit," Mike cursed softly and sank into the armchair with relief.
The next morning, Marcia arose at her usual time, soaked herself in a warm and bubbly bath and planned the day ahead.
She had no plans to inform her husband, Mike, about her change of job. She's call in sick this day and report to work at her new office, Blue Films, Inc. If she didn't like the job, she could always return to her old secretarial duties in the law firm and on one would ever know the difference.
She looked forward to seeing her new boss. Lance Fisher, a strong, unusual name. For all she knew, he might be a celebrity in the pornographic film business. Having only seen one X Rated movie in her life-and that only through half-closed and very nervous eyes-she certainly didn't know the porno producers or their stars. She wondered what a porno film office would look like-she envisioned black light and fluorescent posters of naked genitals, the light playing off Lance Fisher's intense eyes, creating the look of a benevolent devil. Lance Fisher's eyes were most unusual, she remember noticing them in the dark on the bench beside the docks. They almost glittered with life and activity and seemed to look deep inside the soul of the person he was talking to.
Marcia considered, as she dried her sweet smelling body with a fluffy bath towel, the reaction of her parents-or of her husband, Mike. They'd have a fit. Everyone thought of her as virginal and pure, Marcia knew that and to think that she was taking a job at a pornographic movie studio! Marcia grinned at herself in the bathroom mirror.
Mike was still asleep. She'd leave him that way. Marcia didn't want to start an argument over what had happened last night and she was afraid if she wakened him, that's exactly what would happen.
Marcia fairly skipped to the subway stop. Madison and 30th was an easy hop from the East Village and she ran anxiously up the subway steps and to the building that housed Lance Fisher's company, Blue Films, Inc.
She was amazed as she stepped out of the elevator. Blue Films' offices might have been any ordinary insurance agency. There were the usual filing cabinets, grey desks, black vinyl covered chairs. On the wall were head shots of actors, faces Marcia didn't know. She assumed they must be porno film stars. She waited for a moment and then called out, "Mr. Fisher."
Lance Fisher was only twenty-three and anybody calling him, "Mr. Fisher" still came as a shock. He was gently passing an electric razor over the bar spots on his cheeks, carefully avoiding his cultivated beard, and he leaned, shirtless around the office door.
"Oh, it's you," he said and shut off the shaver. "My pick-up from last night."
Marcia smiled nervously.
"I didn't think you'd really show."
"Oh." Marcia was apprehensive. "But you do have a job for me, don't you?"
"You bet I do," Lance smiled, "come on in."
Lance's private office was as staid as the rest of the suite except for the photograph, framed in gold, that sat on his desk. Most executives reserve that spot for a photo of their families, properly posed in living color. On Lance's desk, however, the picture was of an orgy. Twelve, no fourteen people-Marcia tried to hurriedly count them-in a well-posed assortment of sexual positions, all interlocked with one another in some manner. An elderly man had his cock in the mouth of a young girl whose ass was being plundered by a teenage boy whose balls were being licked by a middle-aged woman whose cunt was being fucked by a young man with a mustache-and so on. Marcia wanted to sit down and study the photograph but, embarrassed, she tried to ignore it although her eyes kept darting back to it while she hoped that Lance Fisher, her new boss, wouldn't notice.
"The movies," Marcia asked hesitantly, "They aren't made here?"
Lance laughed.
"Obviously," he said, "You don't know anything about making movies."
"No," Marcia admitted, "I don't. I took a business course in college and since then, I've been supporting my husband while he finds himself."
Even Marcia, herself, could hear the bitterness in her voice.
"I hope," Lance said, "your coming to work here is not just a way to get even. I don't like being in the middle of revenge."
"Oh, no," Marcia assured him, "I like you. I'm fascinated by what you're doing here. You know," she blushed as she confessed, "I saw my first X-rated film yesterday afternoon. And," she blushed again, "I was embarrassed to look at all of it."
She didn't tell Lance Fisher that she had been driven to such sexual heights by what she did see on the screen that she had masturbated in the theatre and been seen by a lecherous, toothless old man.
That, she thought to herself, was the most embarrassing moment of her life and she would never, never share it with anyone. She hoped desperately that she could forget it ever happened.
She couldn't forget the scene that followed it, however-hearing Mike make love to their neighbor and the way in which she, Marcia, flaunted her body and begged him for the same kind of loving. She would never forget the look of disgust on Mike's face as he looked at his wife, writhing in sexual desire. Marcia knew that Mike considered her behavior whorish and he'd never allow her to behave like that again. , What a release that overt sexuality had been
-Marcia felt better this day than she had in years. Shyly, uncomfortably, she remembered her brother saying to a friend, "What she needs is a good fuck." Marcia wondered if what happened to her yesterday was what he meant.
On the other hand, she hadn't been fucked
-she had only wanted to be fucked. She had brought herself to a rousing climax but she didn't know, she wasn't experienced enough to know whether it was the same kind of release as she might have felt if Mike, when she begged him to, had really fucked her. The way he fucked their next-door neighbor.
Janice's words ran through Marcia's head. She could hear them again and again-"Give it to me, put it in me, give me all of it, fuck me, Mike, fuck me!"
As she thought about it, Marcia blushed again.
"You really are something," Lance Fisher said, "I don't believe you've heard a word I've said. You've been sitting there staring into space and blushing. Do I frighten you that much?"
"I'm sorry," Marcia stammered. "What were you saying?"
"I was saying that I'd like you to take a few letters, type them up," he repeated, "and after lunch, we'll go over to the studio. We're shooting a new film there."
Marcia, as usual, was super-efficient and Lance Fisher was very impressed by her secretarial skill.
As she typed the letters, she was amazed that pornographic filmmaking was such a pat business, like any other. Except for the subject matter of the films themselves, the letters she was writing could have been for any kind of business firm, confirming orders, ordering shipments, confirming deals with distributors. How, she wondered, could her parents-or even Mike-find anything wrong with working here?
Lance Fisher took her to lunch at a dark, little bistro. He ordered wine, a treat for Marcia who never drank at lunchtime. She listened carefully to Lance as he told her how he came into the porno film business.
"I was a cinema student at UCLA," he explained, "I thought I'd graduate and be a big movie director." He laughed. "I didn't realize that filmmaking has more to do with who you know than with how much you know."
He sipped his wine and stared at her with those x-ray eyes.
"One night, after I'd been out shooting, I dropped by a friend's house. The door was open and I went inside. It looked like nobody was home so I opened a beer and made myself at home. Pretty soon, however, I heard sounds coming from the pool outside and I walked over to the glass doors that separated the pool from the house and looked outside. The spotlights were on and a group sex scene was in progress. I grabbed my camera and began to shoot. I sold that film, the first that I had made, and gave up my serious intentions for filmmaking, at least for a perhaps I'll start trying to make commercial straight films again. Meanwhile, I'm making lots of money and having a ball." Lance laughed loudly. "I tell my mother that I'm shooting newsreels for television. My old man knows the truth, though, and he attends the first screening of all my flicks. He tells my mother that he's going bowling!"
Lance led Marcia to a garage and they waited while the attendant brought down a silver jaguar. Marcia was impressed. Wouldn't Mike give his arm for a car like this?
Downtown, they parked and walked several blocks to a warehouse near the river. The hallway was dirty and covered with graffiti-SNAKE II, CELIA WILL DO IT WITH ANYBODY, THAT'S NOT TRUE signed ANYBODY, etc.
Behind sliding corrugated garage doors, the filming was taking place.
"Sometimes," Lance explained, "we rent a house in New Jersey to film in. But this particular film takes place in a photographer's studio, so we've rented this warehouse."
The lights weren't on, except for a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.
"They're still on their lunch break," Lance explained. "The actors have a union, you know, strictly for porn performers. And they have some really wild stipulations in their contracts."
Marcia looked at him questioningly and he led her across the room and indicated a canvas back chair for her to sit in.
"Male performers, according to their union contract, only have to come twice a day."
Marcia was shocked, hearing him say the word. She still wasn't accustomed to this much liberation.
"Women, of course," he continued, "can fake it. But their contract has to state exactly what kind of sex act they'll be doing. Some performers won't suck cock, some won't ass-fuck. Even porno performers have their hang-ups."
As the actors arrived back from lunch, Marcia thought they certainly didn't have many hang-ups, not by her standards.
Soon all the actors were standing around the set, bare-naked and Marcia didn't know whether to look at them or to look away. She didn't know where to look when one of them spoke to her.
"Hi," said a well-hung young man, bending over and offering her his hand. "I'm Mark, who are you?"
"I'm Marcia," she said, trying not to look at his half-erect dick which was bobbing just below her chin, "I'm Lance's new secretary."
"Hope you enjoy it," he said and turned back to the set as the director called him.
"You ready, Mark?"
"Not yet," Mark said and started pulling on his dick to make it hard. "Maybe Winnie could give me a hand."
An older, also naked woman walked over to him.
"I won't give you a hand, kid," she said, "I'll give you some head."
She sucked Mark's cock until it stood erect.
"This is my second one today," Mark warned. 'You better get the shot right."
"If the director fucks up," Lance whispered to Marcia, "He'll have to wait until tomorrow to re-shoot. Mark will have already come twice today."
"Okay, kids," the director said, "let's get this right the first time."
A pretty young woman joined Mark on the set and the camera dollied in close as Mark took her nipple in his mouth.
"Rub the other one, honey," the director called, "I want a full tit hard-on."
The girl manipulated her other nipple until it was erect.
"Okay," the director called, "Slate it."
A young woman in shorts and no halter stepped in front of the camera with a clap-board slate.
"Going Down," she said, reading what was on the slate, "Scene Five, Take One."
"Lights," commanded the director, "Action."
The girl with the slate stepped out of the way and Marcia watched, almost holding her breath, as Mark and the girl began their love-making.
He sucked her tits, holding his head a little awkwardly, Marcia thought.
"Notice that he's watching out for camera angles," Lance whispered, "an actor sometimes has to fake what he's doing so we can get the right angle. On the scene, it won't look awkward at all."
His lips touched the nipple, then closed over the whole tip. He kissed around the nipple, arousing the sensitive skin and making it bumpy. Then he took as much of the large, firm breast into his mouth as he could get and sucked and sucked on it. He gasped. You could tell he was very moved.
He almost lost his cool, but slowly pulled himself away. He calmed himself. Then he raised his head again and moved towards the other luscious piece of fruit hanging there, so ripe and ready to be picked. His lips moved towards it and clamped over the stem. He pulled and pulled the nipple and she moaned again. Then his lips touched the tender skin around it. He licked the breast, out from the axle of the nipple. His strokes were long and smooth and slow and geared to arouse her all the more.
She was very aroused now, craving more all the time. "Four, four," she whimpered. She had to satisfy the need of her gaping hole. She felt at its mercy, and because he was the one going to satisfy her, she felt at his mercy.
Again he withdrew the fingers, slowly, slowly, and he held up four fingers for all to see. The women gasped nervously. His fingers were thick. And long. But her cunt was wide, its length endless. And getting bigger all the time.
Making love in front of a camera was certainly different than making love in the privacy of a marital bedroom, even inexperienced Marcia could tell that.
She noticed that the co-workers, actors who were not in this particular scene, sat or stood around, naked, and as Mark finger-fucked the girl, their rods began to stand up and the women ran their masturbatory fingers into their sopping cunts.
One woman bent over on all fours, watching the action of the two before the camera. She seemed to know that someone would come along and ram a hot cock up her hungry cunt from behind-and someone did, a moment later.
As he battered into her cunt, another woman presented her wet crotch to the first woman's hungry mouth and seemed to be moving her hips in the same way that a man might, fucking someone in the mouth. Marcia saw that the girl's clitoris was large, a small penis, it seemed to her and she pressed it in and out the other girl's mouth.
Marcia felt her own juices begin to flow and she moved uncomfortably, not wanting anyone to know.
Marcia had grown up thinking that sex was a private matter-a shameful matter-a matter that should never be discussed.
Mark raised his head and kissed the young girl, then she began to move her lips down his muscular, hairless young body, down his chest.
Marcia was startled that she sucked his nipples and he groaned and responded, just as she thought women did. She vowed that someday, someday, she'd be able to try that on Mike.
The girl's hungry mouth continued to the boy's flat stomach, over his hips, to his public hair. She nibbled and pulled at it with her teeth, holding her head slightly aside so the camera could see everything she was doing.
She cupped Mark's balls, one by one, with her tongue, then took each one of them inside of her mouth. Her jaws moved sensuously and Mark thrashed with excitement. She ran her long tongue around his stiff prick, then down the length of its shaft. The bright studio lights lit the pearly drop that appeared on the end of his cock. She took his cock in her mouth and inch by stiff inch it disappeared down her throat. She turned her body and straddled Mark's face with her legs.
The boy parted the bobbed public hair around the girl's fresh pink cunt and tickled her clit with his tongue, making sure the camera could see him lick and titillate her.
In the last throes of passion, his mouth closed on her clit and her pussy smothered his handsome young face, wetness drooling down his jaw and glittering in the hot lights. His cock was deep into her throat and they rocked together, sucking each other frantically. Sweat stood out on their bodies and they glistened bright, brighter until they each emitted loud and guttural cries and shook, coming together.
"It's a take," the director said calmly.
Mark and the girl unwound from one another and stood up easily as though they had been playing a fast game of tiddly-winks.
"If Mike had come like that," Marcia thought, "he wouldn't be able to stand up at all."
"It's just a business," Lance whispered to her, "that's all it is, a big business."
And speaking of a big business, Marcia couldn't help but notice that Lance's "business" had gotten hard during the shooting of the previous sequence. Maybe Lance knew mentally that it was "just business" but his cock hadn't gotten the word yet.
"Want me to help you out with that?"
It was the middle-aged, naked woman that had sucked Mark earlier.
"This is Rita," Lance introduced her to Marcia, "this is her job. Getting everybody ready."
Rita grinned, "Men, women, whatever, it's all the same to me. All in a day's work. Want me to suck you off, Lance?"
"Why not," Lance shrugged.
"I'll do your friend, too," Rita offered.
"She's my new secretary."
"Terrific," Rita said, "it's all in the family."
With the efficiency of an examining physician, Rita took Lance's stiff cock out of his pants, dropped to the floor between his knees and starting sucking. With her free hand, she slid her fingers under Marcia's skirt and slipped them easily under the panties that Marcia wore.
Something in Marcia said that this must be terrible, it was against all her upbringing. She had grown up being told that this was wrong. But it felt so easy and so right. Marcia spread her legs to give Rita room.
Rita's fingers worked more expertly than her own, inexperienced ones had and Marcia was ecstatically moving toward climax almost immediately. She gasped in delight and Lance looked over at her and smiled.
Suddenly without embarrassment, Marcia tore open her blouse, exposing her ripe, full breasts, their nipples taut, erect.
Lance leaned over, careful not to upset Rita's precarious position and began sucking one of Marcia's tits. He groaned and suckled like a hungry little animal on its mother's teat.
Rita's fingers continued to move rapidly, then suddenly they stopped. Marcia looked down, hanging frantically in space, on the very edge of climax. She saw that Mark had moved Rita's hand and was replacing Rita's active fingers with his tongue.
Marcia had never felt such glorious passion, a squeal of joy came from her and her body convulsed in climax, a total freedom, total giving, total come.
"You ain't seen nothing, yet," Mark grinned up at her, his face wet with her pussy juice. "Let's get those clothes off."
"Yeah," said Rita, leaving Lance's stiff prick to help Mark undress Marcia. They tossed her clothes arbitrarily across the floor and led her to a mat in the center of the brightly lit studio.
"Lie down," Rita ordered as Mark gave the signal to the rest of the cast and crew.
Marcia couldn't look up, the floodlights hurt her eyes so she closed them tightly and let herself depend on her sense of feeling.
She felt a mouth on her left breast, teasing, pulling, sucking. Another mouth on the right breast, the tongue circling her erect nipple. Another mouth licked her midriff, her abdomen and traced its way down her pulsing body to her cunt where it darted in and out, circling the opening to her vagina and finally closing in on her clitoris, wrapping and massaging it in soft wetness. Marcia groaned.
"Yeah, baby," someone said, "Let go, let it all out."
She wailed with desire.
Someone lifted her hips into the air, the tongue still flicking mercilessly at her clit and when they lowered her, a hot stiff prick pushed at her buttocks until it slid into her asshole and her cunt opening was suddenly filled, the walls of her vagina nearly bursting with its size.
In counterpoint, the pricks fucked her cunt and her ass while the hungry mouths continued moving on her stiff clit and aching, erect nipples. Her mouth opened to cry with delight and found itself filled with a pulsing, throbbing, super-stiff piece of male meat. She sucked it hard.
"Don't bite, baby," a male voice said, "cover your teeth with your lips."
Marcia had never sucked a cock before, she tried hard to obey instructions and moved her tongue around the object, trying at the same time to suck with her throat.
"Open up," the voice commanded, "Relax and open up your throat."
Marcia tried to open her throat as the demanding piece of meat kept forcing itself further in. It passed her tongue and filled her throat behind her larynx and she concentrated on not choking on the pulsing, steaming object that moved deeper and deeper into her mouth.
Three orifices were being fucked, three stiff and aching parts of her were being sucked and Marcia thought that if she were to die right then, she would have known the ultimate in pleasure.
The climax was long in coming, she treaded on that level of intense pain and pleasure for many minutes, then suddenly, out of control, her body moving without restriction, she rose high, higher, to the very top and exploded in a racking, shaking, screaming come that threw her six lovers to the floor and left her on the mat alone, centered in the spotlight, come running from her cunt and mouth and ass, saliva glistening on her nipples, totally depleted.
And for that moment, Marcia didn't think about Mike, she only thought about herself and the pleasure she'd been missing.
Lance was lying near her head, naked, too. It must have been his cock that I was sucking, she thought.
He read her mind.
"Don't worry about who was where," he said, "it doesn't matter."
She smiled contentedly.
"Sorry," said the director, "but you'll have to clear the set now. We've got two more scenes to do this afternoon." He tucked his cock back into his pants.
Marcia wondered if that cock was in her cunt or in her ass. Maybe, she thought, it was in someone else. Maybe everyone was doing it together. She laughed at herself maybe this was what people meant when they said Group Therapy.
It certainly had done a lot for Marcia's state of mind.
If only she could get Mike to fuck her like this, freely, everywhere, without conventions standing in his way.
She thought that it was hopeless. Obviously Mike thought she was too good to be properly fucked. She thought, giggling, that she was too good not to be.
As she and Lance dressed and the actors got in place for the following film sequence, Marcia decided that Mike could have the up-tight, respectable wife he wanted. She'd be just as boring in the bedroom with him as she always had been-because now she had an outlet of her own. Talk about finding gratification in your work!
Too bad, though. She cared for Mike, she loved him and she wished somehow that she could share this kind of pleasure with him, too.
The director was on the set, positioning the actors for a scene. One young girl lay on her back, looking at the ceiling. The director instructed another girl to stand over the first girl, facing her, one foot on either side of the first girl's shoulders.
"Now when I call Action," he instructed her, "make her eat you."
A prop girl tossed a whip across the sound stage.
The standing actress caught it mid-air and slapped it soundly, snapping it across the wooden floor.
"It makes a good noise."
The actress lying on the floor said, "Take it easy, Edie, I don't dig getting hurt, that's not my bag."
"But the character you're playing in this film, loves it," the director reminded her, "loves it!"
The director returned behind his camera.
"Okay, slate."
The slate girl stood before the camera.
"Going Down, scene six, take one," she said and snapped the clap-board.
"Action," called the director.
The standing girl looked down at her victim with a malicious smile. She snapped the whip high in the air.
"You're going to love this, baby," she said.
The girl on the floor cried out, whimpering.
"You're going to love it," the standing girl repeated and cracked the whip again, this time on the floor directly beside her victim.
The girl on the floor twisted, as though she'd been hit by the whip.
"From the camera's point of view," Lance whispered to Marcia, "it looks as though the whip is actually hitting her."
Snap.
Snap.
Snap.
The girl on the floor writhed and struggled between the standing girl's feet. She cried, screamed and the whip kept coming.
Snap.
Snap.
Snap.
The girl on the floor was reduced now to a whimpering, sobbing heap, cowering, thrashing, wailing.
The girl who stood above her smiled a victorious smile and, whip still in hand, slowly lowered herself over the victim's face, smothering her in her wide, wet cunt.
"Suck it," she ordered and snapped the whip into the air, "Suck it good."
The victim's face was totally out of sight, covered, surrounded by the throbbing pussy of the girl with the whip.
"Suck it," she ordered, "suck it good. Eat me, make me come all over you."
She snapped the whip into the air to punctuate her words.
"Make me come, honey, make me come good, make me come all over you!"
AIIIIIIHHHHH!
She screamed it as she came, an animal sound, loud and uncontrolled, the spontaneous sound of incredible, unspeakable pleasure.
AAAAIIIIIHHHH!
"That's a take," the director said.
The actresses moved apart and started off the sound stage.
"You really got to me, you know," the actress with the whip said to her victim. "I wouldn't mind trying that with you off the set."
The victim smiled up at her colleague.
"If you leave your whip at home, I'd be happy to oblige."
"It's a deal," the first girl grinned.
"Ah," Lance said to Marcia, "the beginning of romance."
Marcia was shocked somehow that the women, outside of their roles in the film, should want to relate to each other. She was not at certain she could accept or deal with that-it was, in her upbringing, a very unnatural act.
But then, she thought, she'd changed her mind about so many things-and all within forty-eight hours. Less than two days and Marcia was a very different woman from the conservative wife that Mike respected so dammed much.
Maybe, she thought, he won't be able to accept me, the new me. Maybe he'll sense that I've changed.
"Well," Lance said, "let's get back to the office, Marcia. We have work to do."
"I'd better start getting myself together," she said to herself, "I've got to look as though I'd spent the day taking dictation in a lawyer's office when I get home."
Meanwhile, Mike had awakened and found Marcia gone. Gone to work, he assumed, and hoped that she was feeling better. He considered calling her or going by the office but he decided it would only upset her further. Better to deal with it in person when they were alone together that evening.
He had a meeting scheduled with George and Freddy to go over the production plans for their new t-shirt company. He dressed casually and walked down to the Village.
Mike didn't stop at Janice's. He'd been upset by Marcia's overhearing them the night before and seeing Janice would only bring it back. He didn't owe Janice anything, anyway. It was a mutual affair and maybe it was better now to end it. Although, he thought, that Janice had a body that wouldn't quit. His cock was half-hard just at the thought of her.
At their village loft, George and Freddy were busily checking out their system of printing t-shirts.
Such a simple discovery, George had made it when he accidentally exposed a vinyl garbage bag to the light of his photographic enlarger. It took a color print perfectly. All he had to do then was to devise a method of pressing a waterproof adhesive on the back of the vinyl and process them en masse. It would enable them to print anything on a t-shirt, a photograph or art work, for minimal cost and production time.
"That jerk," Freddy giggled, referring to their new business partner, Mike Jackson, "it hasn't even occurred to him that the patent is in our name. We can dump him any time we want to-or even sell the patent to someone else if we decide we want out of the deal."
"You looked awfully happy sucking his cock yesterday," George said abruptly. "I don't like him, I think he's trouble."
"Well," Freddy answered, "He seems to be a good hustler, you said so yourself, didn't you?"
"I suppose so," George agreed and set the pressing machine that attached the transfer to the t-shirt in motion. "I think I could modify this , speed it up even further."
"You're a mechanical genius, lover," Freddy said admiringly.
"Is that all?"
"No, love. If you were really smart, you'd figure out a way to mass produce that enormous cock of yours, we'd sell a million of them. I'd buy a dozen of them, myself."
"You don't need a fake one, baby," George said, "You've got the real thing."
"Let me see it," Freddy teased and reached for George's crotch.
"Cool it," George said, slapping Freddy's probing fingers, "Mike Jackson is due here any minutes."
"Good," Freddy said, "Let's show what a real man looks like."
It was too late for George to protest further, Freddy had the massive piece of meat in hand and was rubbing it to erection.
George remembered the thousands of times, as a kid, he'd rubbed it hard himself, jerking off in bathrooms and in cars, behind trees in parks and hiding in the waving sea oats by the shore, watching teenage couples fucking and wishing he could find himself a girl who didn't flee in horror at the size of his big prick.
He went to a whore house once and chose a girl and followed her eagerly up to a third floor room. But when he dropped his pants and all twelve inches stood throbbing, stiff before her eyes, the prostitute ran from the room and the madam came up to ask him to leave.
"We can't handle freaks in this house, boy," she said, "Try Tillie's on the West Side."
But George was too embarrassed to try Tillie's or anywhere else and kept his sexual needs in check by frequent masturbation until he met George, who'd sucked him off behind the gymnasium and whose eyes had twinkled with delight and anticipation of such a magnificent piece of dick tearing its way up his asshole.
They'd been together ever since and although Freddy frequently irritated George with his "Nellie" behavior, George was eternally grateful for the plump behind that received his stiff prick every night.
Freddy had dropped his pants and was leaning now over the drafting table, waiting to be impaled on George's massive spear.
George took his cock in hand, so large a cock that even George's strong and long-fingered hand could hardly circle it and pressed it against the tiny opening. It amazed George that such a little hole could expand to take his cock but it did, it always did, and it did now, gobbling up the twelve inches so that George's balls bounced with a slapping sound against Freddy's buttocks. Whap, whap, whap.
"Oh, yeah," Freddy was moaning, "Fuck me, George, fill me with it, give me all that cock, shove it up my ass, all the way, give it to me now. NOW!"
And with a crashing crescendo, they both came.
They barely had time to clean up before Mike arrived and as Mike sat on the floor of the nearly bare loft, discussing business with them, he thought he smelled the musky odor of ass-fucking.
Well, he thought, what the hell, I know they're fags.
The money, Mike explained to them, was deposited in a business account and he had already begun to make a deal with a distributor.
"We're ready to roll when you are," George assured him, "I want to make some modifications on the mechanism but I'll have it done by tomorrow, latest."
"We're in business, then," Mike said, "all we have to wait for now is the money to start rolling in."
"I think," Freddy said mischievously, "We ought to celebrate."
George looked questioningly at him.
"Let's take our business partner for a drink and a massage."
George grinned. "Sure," he said, "Why not?" He looked closely at Mike, "You ever been to the baths?"
"I used to go in college to the steam room, get a massage. It was relaxing."
"There is nothing quite so relaxing," George assured him, "as an afternoon at the baths."
George and Freddy exchanged a wink behind Mike's back.
As the three men walked through the streets of the village, Mike wondered why a couple of fags would be interested in a massage parlor. He'd seen the ads-Our Girls Will Do Anything-but he couldn't imagine what they'd do that would interest his faggot partners.
They checked in at the desk of the European Baths, got locker keys and went into the dressing room.
They undressed carefully-Mike didn't want the fags to think he wanted to look at their bodies, so he averted his eyes-and once their clothes were hung up in the locker and towels rapped and tucked around their waists, they went into the steam room.
It was hard to see in the steam room and Mike stretched out across a bench and closed his eyes. The heat and wetness felt good to him, his body relaxed, he was happy. Next week, next year at least, he'd be rich. A dedicated, virtuous wife, a fat bankroll, a neighbor who would spread he legs whenever he wanted, what more could a man want?
Freddy slipped a hand under George's towel and tried again to get him up. George was successful this time in pushing him away
"You're a goddam nymphomaniac," he whispered.
"I'm an addict," Freddy whispered back, "I've got to have an injection every now and then."
In the fogginess around them, Freddy and George watched men coupling, slipping and sliding over and into each other in the heat and wet.
Mike, his eyes closed, saw nothing.
After the steam room, they adjourned to the bar, towels still around their waists.
Joanne Jonquil, an almost-made-it-to-the-top singer, was singing old-fashioned love songs and the men watched avidly. Mike noticed that they all seemed a little embarrassed, however, when she approached them, touched them, sang to them.
Not Mike, he wrapped an arm around her waist and had slipped his hand down the low back of her dress and was rubbing a finger in the crack of her ass before she'd sung eight bars to him. Joanne Jonquil's eyes widened in surprise.
After her set, Joanne stomped into the manager's office.
"You bastard," she shouted, "you promised me I wouldn't have to deal with any octopus-handed customers."
The manager was as startled as Joanne and peeked into the bar-room to take a look at Mike.
"I wonder," the manager said, "if he knows where he is?"
CHAPTER FOUR
Mike, who prided himself on his sophistication, didn't, in fact, know where he was until he lay down on the massage table and found his tense muscles being squeezed and pulled by a young man almost too beautiful to be a male. At first, Mike only glanced and thought it was a tall and slender young woman. He was deciding how to make his pitch and wondering if he should tip her after her fucked her, when the head bent low and he could see that the face was stubbled with a beard.
"Get your hands off me, fag," Mike growled and spun his body over and sat upright.
"Hey, take it easy, mister," said the beautiful young man, "I'm just massaging you, it's my job."
Mike realized that it was true.
"Well," Mike said, "keep your fag hands off my pecker."
The beautiful young man grinned behind Mike's back. He'd heard guys like Mike unload their hostility before. And ten minutes later, he'd find them bending over the massage table, taking somebody's nine inches up their ass. They like to think they're tough, the beautiful boy thought-and, in his opinion, they were. Being manly didn't have much to do with who you slept with, so far as he could see. After all, the beautiful young man remembered, he had fucked a lot of women in his time and still did, if there was money in it for him. What the hell did it matter who you fucked-so long as you kept fucking. The young man liked to think of himself as a hedonist, a modern-day Dorian Grey.
He pounded Mike's back fiercely, slapped on some lotion, covered the customer with a towel and left the massage room.
Mike lay there, on his belly, staring at the tiled floor, feeling the heat from the pounding on his back release and relax the muscles, one by one. The lotion smelled of peppermint. It reminded Mike of the dentist's office.
Out in the hallway, the beautiful young man told other clients to steer away from the Rough Trade in Massage Room Two, so Mike lay there alone until he felt completely relaxed, then he got up, walked back to the locker room and dressed. His two business partners were no where to be seen, so he paid the tab for himself only, and with large strides he exited the European Baths and meandered down the sunny Village Street.
Massage Room Four at the European Baths was a menagerie of flying arms and legs and cocks and mouths, the daily orgy was in progress. George and Freddy were worn out when it was over and didn't even wonder where Mike was until they had gotten home to the village loft.
"Some day," George thought, "some day I'm going to get that guy and shove it up him. Won't that be something?"
He grinned at the idea.
Nothing pissed George off more than a guy who made a career out of his manliness. That jerk could stand to be taken down a peg or two. He pitied the bastard's wife. Mike, George figured, was the kind of guy who pumped it in until he came and rolled over and went to sleep.
Well, it takes all kinds....
He was dammed lucky, he thought again, to have Freddy living with him. What a gorgeous piece of ass.
Janice, Mike and Marcia's neighbor, had packed up her portfolio of pictures and resumes that afternoon and taken a bus uptown to make the rounds of agent's offices.
On most doors, there was a sign posted.
WE SEE CLIENTS ONLY!
DON'T COME IN WITHOUT AN APPOINTMENT!
SLIDE PICTURES AND RESUME UNDER THE DOOR.
It was like the old saying, "Don't call us, we'll call you." There seemed to be no way for a new performer to get a start.
In an uncharacteristic display of bravery, Janice ignored the sign and opened the office door.
"Do you have an appointment?"
The receptionist had said it before Janice had both feet inside the office.
"No," Janice said hesitantly, "But I...."
"Sorry," the receptionist said and chewed fiercely on her gum, "Miss Andrews isn't seeing any new clients."
Just at that moment, Miss Andrews herself stepped out of the executive suite and caught a glimpse of Janice.
"Martha," she said sternly to her receptionist, "don't be so rude. Goodness knows," she continued, obviously for Janice's benefit, "it's hard enough for a young actress to get started in this town."
Janice smiled with relief.
"I'm Janice Martin," she said and walked into the room, picture and resume in hand.
"I'm Marnie Andrews," the older woman said and smiled warmly. "Come in. I like to see new talent."
The receptionist rolled her eyes in disbelief and went back to chewing her gum.
Marnie Andrews office was decorated in the same impeccable good taste that seemed characteristic of everything about her. Tall and arien, she was a carefully preserved forty-five. Her face, her hair, even her clothing, seemed sculptured to create a startling effect-the kind of women everyone turns on the street to look at twice.
"Now," Miss Andrews began, still smiling at Janice, "let's see those pictures and that resume."
As she studied Janice's portfolio, she looked up occasionally and smiled that encompassing smile.
It made Janice feel important, special-but at the same time, there was a nervousness in the pit of her stomach, a nervousness she couldn't quite define. Silly, she said to herself, the most important agent in New York is paying attention to you, don't be nervous. But the nervousness continued.
Miss Andrews got up from her desk and walked around to the chair where Janice sat stiffly. She put the portfolio down on the desk.
"You haven't done much except school plays," she said gently. "You need to get experience."
"Oh," Janice said eagerly, "I want to, I want to. But how? No one will cast me unless they see me work-and I can't work if no one will cast me."
Miss Andrews laughed, warm, comforting.
"In this business," she said simply, looking directly into Janice's eyes, "a girl has got to have a friend."
Janice smiled back, the nervousness continuing to nag at the pit of her stomach.
"I know a lot of regional casting directors," Miss Andrews said and sat on the edge of the desk, looking down on Janice, "they'll use a newcomer if I recommend them."
"Oh," Janice almost whispered with the nervousness, "I'd really appreciate that."
"But," Miss Andrews continued and moved away from Janice, looking her over from a distance across the room, "I haven't seen you work, either, have I?"
"No," Janice admitted.
"I'd need to, at least, know you better before I stick my neck. You can understand that, can't you?"
Janice was going to say, "Yes, m'am," but she was afraid she would offend Miss Andrews. She said, instead, "Oh, yes, I understand."
"Good," Miss Andrews returned to her mahogany desk and flipped open a date book. "How's tomorrow night?"
Janice thought for a moment. She was scheduled to work tomorrow night, waitressing-but this might be an important break. It was worth losing one night's pay. If only Marnie Andrews would sign her as a client, she'd be on her way. Marnie Andrews knew how to make anybody a Star!
"Tomorrow's fine," Janice said, swallowing hard and trying to return Miss Andrews' magnificent smile.
"Here's my address," the agent said efficiently, "come over after dinner, about eight-thirty."
'Oh, yes," Janice said, "Oh, yes, I'll be there."
She was excited that she didn't even say good-bye. She jumped to her feet, her head swimming with a thousand fantasies of being a Super Star, and raced to the door.
"Janice," the agent's voice stopped her. "You forgot your portfolio."
Janice flushed with embarrassment and hurried back to take the leather case from Miss Andrews.
"Thank you again."
Marnie Andrews watched the young woman as she left.
She couldn't contain the grin that went from ear to ear. Then she realized that her receptionist was staring up at her. Marnie Andrews' face became solemn, business-like.
"What are you looking at?"
The receptionist shrugged and chewed her gum.
When Marnie Andrews had returned to the executive suite, the receptionist looked after her and said out loud, "Jesus Christ."
She spat her gum into the wastebasket and opened up another stick.
"Well," she said, cracking her gum loudly, as she turned to the typewriter and rolled in a sheet of Marnie Andrews Agency's stationery, "there's no business like show business."
At Blue Films, Inc., Marcia did a full afternoon of secretarial work, formally and efficiently, and was amazed that the energy that morning's sexual workout had given her.
Strangely, she felt no embarrassment now with Lance Fisher, even though she thought it was probably his hot cock she'd sucked and swallowed the juice from only a few hours ago.
Lance was a bright, young man, Marcia thought as she continued efficiently typing distribution orders on bright yellow forms. She wished that Mike would find his niche-he could be as successful as Lance, certainly, if only one of his business gambles would pay off.
She was still concerned about Mike cashing in their only nest egg, the money that her grandfather had given her, to invest in a t-shirt printing company. Mike said that it was a fool-proof way to make a million, but he had said that many times before and all the other gambles fizzled out. She hoped that this one wouldn't, that Mike would make it big this time.
Perhaps if Mike were successful-it seemed to be so important to him, his entire identity seemed to be at stake-perhaps then he wouldn't be so stringent in his requirements for a wife. Perhaps he would accept her as a person, treat her like a woman, a partner, not an idol on a pedestal, not a china doll, not a madonna. She knew that he was capable of fucking-she'd heard him fucking their neighbor only last night and he seemed like the kind of animal she'd like to have him be with her. She wanted her husband to suck her off. Marcia blushed as she thought it. But it's true, she said to herself, I want to suck his prick, I want him to eat my cunt, I want him to fuck me everywhere, I want to know that he is my man and that I can satisfy him. I want to know that I am his woman and all the woman he ever needs.
With that thought, Marcia switched off the electric typewriter and took the neatly paragraphed orders into Lance's office for his signature.
The office was pitch black and Marcia squinted quickly, trying to adjust her eyes.
"Shut the door," Lance said, "You're letting in the light."
At the far end of the room, she could see him sitting next to a film projector. At the other end of the room, a flickering light led her eyes to the film in progress.
"Rough cuts," Lance said, "we haven't edited yet. Sit down and see what you think."
There was only one person on the screen, a man. Marcia guessed him to be about thirty years old, not bad looking but no knock-out, either. He did a burlesque strip tease, bumping and grinding like a regular stripper, grinning with his large teeth into the camera. Marcia laughed out loud.
"Good," Lance said, approvingly, "that's the reaction I want."
When the man on the screen had dropped all of his clothing, including a baggy pair of candy striped boxer shorts, he sat on the floor in a yoga lotus position and smiled up at the camera as though he were saying, "And for my next act...."
"My God," Marcia gasped. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. The man on the film had stroked his long, thin dick into a firm erection and seemingly without difficulty, bent his body double and was sucking his own cock.
"I don't believe it," she said, "is it trick photography?"
"No," Lance laughed, "it's all for real. I understand there are a number of guys around who can suck themselves off."
Marcia stared, wide-eyed.
On the screen, the man's body began to rock with the motions of oncoming orgasm. He came rather conservatively, she thought, but then he couldn't pull the stops out-he'd break his own back! After a moment, the man looked up at the camera and smiled again, his own come bubbling from his big, bright teeth.
Lance switched on the lights.
He smiled at her.
Marcia, speechless from the film she'd seen, handed him the distribution orders for his signature.
As he scratched his name across the bottom of each gold sheet, he said, "I understand there's a girl around who does a backbend and eats herself, too. I haven't been able to find her yet."
"That's farther than I want to go,' Marcia said.
"Well," Lance admitted, "Everybody has a limit, even me."
Marcia couldn't resist asking him. "What is your limit?"
"Mine?" Lance grinned. "Animals and kids. I'm just not into that kind of stuff, turns my stomach. But, as I say, everybody's got a limit."
"I don't think I'd like that, either."
"You might. Some people do. Not me, though. I'll do anything with grown-up people, with one or two or half a dozen, either or both sexes. That's where I draw my line."
"I don't think," Marcia ventured, "that I'd like being hurt-or hurting anyone. That business with the whip was frightening today."
"Don't knock," Lance said, "anything you haven't tried." Marcia was silent.
Marcia was willing to admit that she hadn't tried everything-and certainly willing to admit she had a lot to learn. But she didn't think she wanted to hurt anybody. And she certainly didn't want anybody hurting her. She got dizzy at just the sight of blood.
But Lance's crooked, knowing smile made her try to keep an open mind.
That evening, Mike was relaxed, not tense as Marcia had expected him to be.
"I hope you're feeling better," he said respectfully and although he did not apologize for his behavior the night before, he helped her with the dishes for the first time since she had pneumonia, two years before.
In bed that night, he took her gently, carefully, as he always did and she lay back, admittedly bored, for the first time. She stared at the ceiling above the bed and counted the number of places that the paint was cracking. She wished that Mike would paint the apartment or at least lean hard enough on the superintendent so that he would have it done. But Mike never noticed things like that. Anything about the apartment was her responsibility.
He finished and rolled over and fell into immediate sleep, snoring softly, in a regular rhythm.
Sometimes she welcomed the sound of his snoring, enjoyed it, it was peaceful, reassuring. Tonight it irritated her and she crept quietly out of bed and tip toed into the living room where she sat up until two a.m. reading the sex article in the woman's magazine she'd bought the day before.
Finishing it, she closed the magazine and laid it quietly on the coffee table. She leaned back onto the sofa and laughed softly to herself. Only a day later and she knew more, now, than the person who wrote that article. The article, Marcia decided, was definitely a kindergarten piece-and she, well she was at least a fifth grader in the school of sexual prowess.
She tried to visualize Lance's cock as he pressed it into her mouth, deep into her throat. She tried to recreate the feeling, the pressure that mounted in the walls of her throat. She practiced opening up her throat, contracting it, opening it, until she fell asleep on the living room sofa.
That night, Marcia dreamed about the girl with the whip. She was cornered, the stone walls rose high around her on three sides. Directly in front of her, the girl with the whip, those evil eyes surveying every inch of Marcia's body, her strong forearm cracking the whip against the wall beside Marcia. Marcia falling, falling to her knees, begging. The girl with the whip coming closer, closer, closer.
The cunt-in front of her face, its plump, pink lips pouting at her, teasing her, urging her, coming closer, closer until the strong smell of desire filled her nostrils, the whip cracks, she can hear coming closer but she can only see the shimmering cunt coming at her, threatening to smother her, threatening to pull her into it.
Marcia woke, startled. Her mouth was dry. She stumbled toward the kitchen to get water. As she lay back down again, the dream hovered above her, waiting to begin, waiting in her unconsciousness....
She made herself think about Mike as she petted her pussy, wet now from the dream. She slipped a finger easily into the crack and rubbed her clitoris in a steady rhythm, forcing herself to think only of her husband. But when she neared the climax, the legs spontaneously spread and her hand worked feverishly between them, the face of Lance Fisher replaced Mike and she opened her mouth hungrily fantasizing Lance's steaming cock pumping in and out her throat.
Janice was up late, too. When she came home from her waitressing job, she turned on the closet light and went through her outfits, one by one, wondering what she should wear to meet Marnie Andrews the following night.
She was a very lucky girl, she knew, that she just happened to disobey the sign and enter Miss Andrews' office, and just happened to be standing there when Miss Andrews herself came into the reception area.
Still, Janice thought, she must have seen something special in me. She must have sensed a talent, a star quality, or she wouldn't have bothered to invite me in her office-and to invite me to her home! It was unheard of. All the actors and actresses that Janice had known in New York City had tried to get that close to Marnie Andrews, the famous agent, and had all failed. "If she handles you, you've got it made," a struggling actor had told Janice when she first came to New York. "But don't get your hopes up. She won't see anybody."
A star quality, Janice mused, and tried on a new pants outfit in front of the mirror. What was the quality, she wondered-she really ought to find an outfit to enhance it.
Country girl, innocence? Janice stared at herself. Not, not even she could say that she had a quality of innocence. A glamor queen: Joan Crawford in her youth? Janice put on a sexy face and laughed at herself. She definitely was no Jane Russell. Sophisticated and cold, maybe? She did her very best to look like Barbara Stanwyck or Grace Kelly. That wasn't it.
She tore off the chic outfit and pulled on her levis. That was her look, she knew it. A halter top, her hair loose and flowing, hip high levis that looked as though they had been sewn on her, clogs, no makeup. The modern girl, that was the look for Janice, the modern girl, back to nature, who knows all and is mother earth at twenty-one. It was perfect. Janice usually masturbated herself to sleep every night, sleep coming sometimes before she reached a climax, she didn't need the comfort of her finger this night. She had dreams of stardom, dreams that had a chance now of really coming true.
While Janice drifted contentedly to sleep, dreaming of a future filled with fame and money, all made possible by star-maker Marnie Andrews, at Marnie's posh east side apartment, the voices were mounting and tempers flared. It was a woman's voice.
"Goddamit, Marnie, I'm still in love with you!"
Marnie didn't answer. She stirred a martini in a crystal pitcher, making click-click-clicking noises as the stirrer hit against the glass.
"Marnie, talk to me!"
Marnie turned easily, calmly.
"I do hate scenes," she said wearily to no one in particular, "Everyone knows how much I hate scenes."
"You can't just drop me like this," the voice continued, whining, "It isn't fair."
"I can do anything I want to do," Marnie answered calmly. "And I do."
"You brought me to this country, you made me Number One, the biggest rock star in the world. You made me famous, you made me fall in love with you...."
The voice might have continued but Marnie interrupted it.
"I made you. Period."
"It isn't fair. I love you!"
Marnie wasn't crude enough to say it out loud-but to herself, she sing-songed, "Boring."
Out loud, she said, "You're rich, you're famous and you say I made it happen. Thank me."
"I do thank you."
"Then show your appreciation. Get out of my life."
Lana Stern, the world's hottest sex symbol and number one recording star, threw her arms around Marnie Andrew's neck.
Marnie disengaged her firmly.
"But you said you loved me," the singer whined again.
"I did love you at that very moment, at the moment I was making love to you." Marnie lit a filtered cigarette and blew a stream of smoke fiercely across the room. "I never asked you to marry me, did I?"
The girl who stood, broken, begging before Marnie Andrews would never have been recognized by her millions of fans. Mascara streaked her cheeks and fanned out around her eyes like a raccoon. Her face was spotted with blemishes, brought on by emotion and her hair clung, wet with nervous perspiration, to her scalp.
Marnie winced at the sight.
"Do us both a favor, Lana," she said, "go home and go to sleep. Forget this night happened. You'll hate yourself tomorrow for making such a fool of yourself tonight. Go home, find a man, or find a woman, find someone, anyone but me. I made you a star, I'll see you stay a star but get out of my apartment now, Lana. Get out of my life."
"There must be a new girl on the horizon," Lana screamed, gathering her pocketbook and jacket, "everybody tells me that you always dump your current lover when there's a new face that interests you. Have you fucked her yet, Marnie? Have you made her a star? Has she paid her dues by sitting at your feet night after night, sucking you while you tell her that you love her?"
Lana was at the apartment door now.
"You know, Marnie," she said, pulling herself together, "I always wanted to tell you something but I was afraid I'd hurt your feelings."
Marnie stopped and looked, poised for whatever might come.
"You take so goddam long to come, you give a person a sore jaw."
With that, Lana Stern, girl Superstar, America's sexpot, turned on her heel and left,, the door slamming loudly to behind her.
Marnie drank her dry martini in one long swallow. She did hate scenes and she never intended, she said it again and again, to hurt anyone. It was all good, clean fun. She gave them stardom and they gave her a good time for a while. It seemed to her the trade was in their favor, not hers. Stardom was long-lasting and it was they wanted more than anything else in the world. She could give it to them and after all, everything in the world has a price, hasn't it?
Marnie looked at herself in the full-length hall mirror.
Damn, she thought, I'm a good-looking woman. It's a fucking privilege to go to bed with me.
She'd be more careful next time. Next time, she'd make herself perfectly clear. "This is a fling, not a wedding. Just once around and then goodbye, dear. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"
It sounds so harsh, she thought, perhaps I'll find a better way to say it.
She thought about the young woman she'd invited for drinks the next night. Janice, was that her name? Nice looking girl, Marnie said to herself, very nice looking and a remarkably sensuous quality.
She probably had been to every other agent in New York, Marnie thought. And all the straight men have chased her around their desks and either bedded her and forgotten her or not bedded and forgotten her, anyway. The gay men didn't see her sexy quality, of course. Marnie was the number-one agent for producing female stars. She could see that commercial sexy quality a mile away. If the girl turned Marnie on, it was sure she'd turn on movie, TV and record audiences.
"The world," Marnie laughed out loud to herself, "should thank me. Every time I get a hard-on, America gets a new star."
But with this one, she promised herself, she'd make it clear.
No Strings.
Marnie undressed, carefully and neatly hanging up each garment, one by one. Compulsively neat, Marnie insisted on fresh linen on her bed every night and fresh towels in the bathroom daily. The maid who worked for Marnie Andrews had her work cut out for her.
Naked she showered, letting the water run over her body. Cold water. Marnie was an outspoken advocate of cold showers. She smiled as she wondered what kind of sexual monster she would be if she didn't take her two cold showers every day.
Alone, she slipped into her round bed. A pretense, admittedly, but she could afford it and as a girl she'd seen a round bed in a movie and promised herself that she would have one someday. She liked the roundness, it was female, womanly, the circle, the opening, the entrance.
Marnie slept fitfully that night, as she did when she had not been sexually satisfied. It was necessary for Marnie to always have a girl in bed because Marnie was horrified at the thought of masturbation, the Biblical implications of "spilling one's seed upon the ground" had an early and severe inhibiting influence on her.
But Marnie Andrews was one of the few women in the world who could have a sex dream and reach a climax in her sleep, untouched by human hand. This night, toward morning, Marnie had such a "wet dream" and she woke with the face of her dream lover. fresh in her mind. Janice.
While Marnie dreamed of Janice and Janice dreamed of stardom, Marcia dreamed of the girl with the whip and Freddy and George dreamed of ripping off their straight partner, Mike Jackson. Mike was dreaming, too, of power and a lot of money, dreaming of the things he'd buy and the women he'd have while his wife waited patiently and lovingly at home, raising a passel of young males, all looking just like their daddy.
In Lance Fisher's elegant penthouse pad, he dreamed, too. He dreamed of educating Marcia, his new secretary into a hothouse full of new and forbidden pleasure. Maybe, he thought, he'd learn a thing or two himself.
He awoke with a hard-on, angry that his needed sleep was disturbed by the throbbing of his cock.
Lance got up and walked in the dark to a wall-long closet in the hallway. Opening it, the lights came on automatically and on the shelves of the closet was an assortment of sexual apparatus that was worthy of any erotic store in any part of the world.
In fact, much of the apparatus was imported, found by Lance on his European travels.
He searched the shelves, looking for something to relieve his hard, pulsing penis. Vibrators.
Of every size and shape. Long, thin ones, big, fat ones, vibrators that rubbed, vibrators that moved up and down, vibrators that went in a circle, vibrators that attached to cocks, vibrators that filled up cunts and asses, soft, plastic vibrators with water bags attached to suck off.
Dildos.
Double-ended dildoes so two women could fuck simultaneously, or two men, or any combination thereof. Dildoes with testicles, ready to be filled with warm water or milk to spill into whatever orifice the user may desire.
A fully inflated rubber woman, complete with breasts and nipples, cunt and clitoris, buttocks and asshole, all operable.
A fully inflated rubber man, complete with nipples, testicles, penis, buttocks and asshole, all operable.
And fragments.
Strange-looking fragments.
A pair of breasts, complete in every detail but attached to nothing.
A pair of buttock, equipped with hair and hole, realistic in every little precise and human detail, but belonging to nobody.
A cunt, surrounded by real human pubic hair, imbedded in the soft vinyl covering plastic by hand with a hot needle. A clitoris, complete in every detail.
A vaginal opening, flexible to stretch the length of whatever cock should have the chance to penetrate it, and pin-holes dotted over the labia to excrete whatever warm, pungent fluid the user might put in it. A machine.
A fucking machine. A large penis, attached to a mechanical arm. When activated and placed in mouth or cunt or ass, the fucking motion can't be differentiated from the real thing.
Another fucking machine. To be used in combination with the first one, should the user want more than one orifice fucked at any one time.
Two vinyl human heads, their mouths pursed.
A mechanical woman and mechanical man. Plug in their heads and they will suck whoever places their cock in the plastic mouths.
Two vinyl human heads, tongues extended.
Get nipples, clitoris, head of cock titillated by the plastic tongue of your choice. Or get a rim job.
Two human hands, unattached from one another.
Either would bend to fit the user's fantasy.
A hand to finger you or jerk you off or manipulate your titties. Name it, Lance had it.
Small metal balls, filled with Japanese mercury. Insert in the vagina for a special thrill. Lance had a male friend who had tried inserting them in the rectum and required special attention at the emergency ward next morning.
Lance felt like a normal, ordinary fuck.
He took the inflated plastic woman from the closet and laid her on the parquet floor of the hallway.
Looking down at her unblinking bright blue eyes, he laughed out loud at what he was about to do.
He took the standard, Number One Missionary position and inserted his stiff cock into the dummy.
Placing one arm on the floor on either side of her, he started humping, half-laughing to himself.
He thought about the time when he just eleven and bored a hole in his cousin's mattress to hump in.
He thought about the time the Ferris wheel broke down and he and his buddy, Earl, were trapped on top. While all the other passengers cried out for help, Lance and Earl jerked each other off.
He thought about the minister's daughter and the night he and Earl and Joe Tennyson trapped her in the cloak room and felt her pussy until it started getting wet. Joe Tennyson was sure the girl had peed on him and made such a fuss the teacher came into the room and caught them.
He thought about the afternoon he'd walked to the poorest section of town to pay court to Sadie, the little girl that everybody made fun of because she was too poor to have underwear. He remembered that all the boys grabbed underneath her dress when she walked home from school but on the day that Lance went courting her, he didn't even peek at her pussy. He wanted her to feel that he treated her with dignity, with respect.
And yet, he thought as he continued to pump into the rubber manikin, he fucked the richest girl in class during the sixth grade, took her cherry and got her hooked on him for the rest of their school days. Once a week at least, he had to ball her and it was with a sense of relief that she got married and moved to Maryland.
He tried to count the women he'd had in his life--and the men-and lost count at one hundred and fourteen and only two, no three, more plunges and WHAM!
His cock spilled its contents, its sexual remembrances, into the rubber figure and his semen rolled out the plastic cunt, sliding slowly onto the parquet floor.
He watched it and wondered if it would remove the stain, leave a stain. He went into the bathroom and took a handful of toilet paper, knelt and wiped it up.
No sense in upsetting the maid.
The next morning when Mike Jackson awoke, the sun was shining brightly in the bedroom window and the bed next to him was empty, cold. Marcia had gone to work some time ago-it was already noon.
Mike hurriedly put on a pot of water to boil for coffee and dressed. Standing over the stove, he thought about the adage-
"A watched pot...."
He turned the stove off and went into the hallway. , He knocked on Janice's door. "Who is it?"
"Your local mugger," he said. Janice would make him coffee and give him a good lay in the process.
"Sorry," she said, "I'm busy."
Busy?
"Doing what?"
Mike's voice was demanding.
"None of your damned business," she answered and he heard her walk away from the door.
"Hey," he called, "You mad at me?"
Janice smiled at herself in the mirror, pushed her hair back and studied her fine facial bones.
"Hey," Mike called again, "You hear me?"
I hear you, Janice said inside her head, I hear you but I don't need you today. I'm going to be a star.
Mike shrugged and muttered, "women" to himself as he returned to his apartment and flipped on the stove again. He sat on a stool beside the flame and watched it. He wondered if the adage was true. If he watched it, would it ever boil?
Janice, in her apartment, was relieved to hear Mike's footsteps retreating.
She rubbed a cleansing lotion on her face. Guaranteed to push out blackheads and tighten up the pores. Supposed to take ten years off your age.
Janice giggled. Ten years off her age and she'd be just a kid.
And she wasn't a kid at all.
Today, for the first time since she'd come to New York City, she believed that she could make it big-the dream could come true.
She remembered the first day in the city.
She'd paid seventy-five cents to ride to the top of the Empire State Building. On the overlook, she stared at the buildings so far below. Jersey to her left, Long Island to her right, Connecticut straight ahead of her. Below she could see Broadway, just at matinee time, limousines and charter buses pulling up in front of marquees lit with golden names.
"I'm going to own you someday," she said out loud to the city, "someday you're going to belong to me."
With all the hard knocks since then, she didn't believe it for a while, she lost the dream.
But yesterday in Marnie Andrews' office, the dream arose again, just as golden, just as pure and perfect as it was in the beginning.
"Hi there, Janice," she said to her reflection in the mirror as she massaged the cream into her face. "Hello Star."
Mike waited a long, long time but the water never boiled.
Finally, he turned the stove and went downstairs to a nearby Deli and ordered coffee and a Danish.
Alone, he watched the couples on the sidewalk, walking hand in hand, enjoying spring in Manhattan, and he was jealous.
He wanted to see Marcia.
He wanted to see his wife, to hold her hand.
His coffee half-finished, he tossed some coins onto the table and rushed out into the street to catch the bus cross-town.
CHAPTER FIVE
At the law firm offices, the receptionist greeted Mike warmly.
"How's Marcia," she asked with some concern. "We've been worried about her. This is the first time she's been out sick since she came to work here. Hope it's not serious."
"Out sick?"
Mike couldn't help the startled response. "Of course," the receptionist continued. "I tried to call her at home yesterday to see how she was feeling, but there was no answer. I guess she was at the doctor's office."
Mike was baffled. He paused and thought before he responded again. Marcia, the devoted wife, dedicated, responsible employee-this certainly wasn't like Marcia! He knew that she had not been home sick the day before. After all, she was gone when he woke up and when he came back from his day with the faggots, she still wasn't home.
Why would Marcia lie to her office?
Mike didn't want to face any of the possibilities-not there, in Marcia's office, in front of the receptionist. He tried to sound calm.
"She's feeling better," he lied, not wanting to commit himself, "She's just tired and tense-this city does it to you."
The receptionist, still exhausted from her hour's ride in from the wilds of Brooklyn on the crowded subway, nodded with understanding.
"This is a good time for her to be out, with the boss in Europe. She really doesn't have too much to do when he's out of town."
"Well,' Mike thought quickly, "I just dropped by to tell you that she's feeling better, it's nothing serious. She doesn't want you to worry."
"Oh," the receptionist seemed pleased and flattered, "Well, please give her my very best-tell her I miss her. It's dreary around here without Marcia."
As Mike left, the receptionist watched his six-foot frame, shifting from foot to foot as he waited for the elevator.
Marcia's very lucky, she thought, such a good-looking man and he seems to respect her so much.
The receptionist had grown up with Brooklyn boys whose idea of respect was to corner a girl behind the garbage bins and stick a grabbing hand up under her dress. Mostly for that reason, she'd never dated much and although she had some romantic fantasies about gentlemen and true love, the receptionist in fact steered clear of any real involvement.
Mike stepped onto the elevator, shaking his head as if to clear it. It didn't make sense. Why would Marcia lie to her office?
And where the hell was she?
Sitting on a bench in the park, he tried to keep the obvious thought from entering his head-another man.
No! Mike stood up and paced through the park paths. No! Not his wife, not his faithful, dedicated wife. No way.
There must be an explanation, a reason.
Marcia hardly knew what sex was about, Mike thought, she wouldn't be with another man. Not Marcia, not Mike's perfect wife.
At the midtown office of Blue Films, Inc., Marcia sat efficiently at her typewriter in the outer office, wishing that her boss. Lance Fisher, would again invite her to visit the set of the film that was currently being shot.
She remembered the events of the day before, the first fulfilled sexual experience she had ever had.
She ought to blush with shame, she thought to herself, that's what she had been taught to do whenever the wicked subject of sexual gratification was brought up. That's what her parents would expect her to do-what her husband Mike would expect her to do. What society in general, her old boss at the law firm, Agnes the sweet receptionist, what everyone expected to do.
But Marcia felt no shame and tried hard to push away the guilt that was creeping into the corners of her mind because she was shameless. Something must be wrong with her, she thought, she must be without morals, without respectability.
Fuck it!
She said it to herself inside her head. She'd never said the word out loud before and so she tried it.
Fuck, she said.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
She smiled at her own bravery. Lance Fisher was standing the doorway now, watching, listening. "What's the matter?" Marcia looked up, startled. "People usually say Fuck when something has gone wrong," Lance shrugged. "It's not the proper usage of the word, but that's the way most people say it." Marcia blushed.
"I was saying it because-well, because I never said it out loud before." Lance doubled up with laughter. "You're putting me on." Marcia shook her head. "No, it's true."
"You really have been uptight, haven't you?"
Marcia nodded.
"Well, we can change all that, can't we?"
Marcia remembered the events of the past morning and smiled broadly. "It certainly was a new experience."
"That was just the beginning," Lance Fisher promised her. "You've got a lot more to learn."
He grinned a lop-sided, telling grin and winked at her.
"After lunch," he said in the efficient tone of a businessman, "I'd like to do some work at my apartment."
Marcia looked at him questioningly.
"I'll need your help, of course."
Marcia nodded and turned back to typewriting, her heart pounding with the expectation of the unknown.
In a fury, Mike Jackson walked back to his lower east side apartment building, mounted the stairs with purposeful, heavy footsteps and knocked at Janice, his next-door-neighbor's door.
"Yes?"
"You still mad at me?"
"I'm busy, Mike," she said. Dammit, she wasn't going to give in to that sadistic brute.
"Come on," he pleaded through the door, "I need to talk to you."
"I said, I'm busy."
"I said," he repeated, "I need you."
Janice was torn between her resolution to cut Mike Jackson out of her life and the possibility that, in fact, he did need her.
Like most young women, Janice had been imprinted since her girlhood with the idea that she should push aside all personal concerns whenever a member of the male sex needed her. Janice's mother had been the kind who gave her life for her father, brothers, husband and sons. No sacrifice was too great, no chore too consuming to perform for a needy male.
Intellectually, Janice resisted that idea. That, she told herself, is why she wasn't interested in getting married, being a wife, a mother. She was an individual, she would lead her own life.
But, in fact, when a pleading voice like Mike Jackson's begged for her help, she was a push-over.
Janice opened the door.
Mike grabbed her and held her fast.
"Hey, baby," he said sexily.
"Come on," Janice said, pulling away, "you said you needed to talk."
"This is a kind of communication, isn't it?"
He pressed his crotch into contact with her body.
"If you want to talk," Janice said firmly, displaying her new feeling of authority, "talk."
Mike let go of her and crumpled into a chair.
Janice watched him-the big body, usually erect, was slumped, beaten, defeated.
"Mike," she said with genuine concern, "what's wrong?"
Mike wasn't sure that he should tell her. He'd really intended to grab her and throw her down and fuck her. He only wanted to release the tension he was feeling. That's what he thought, anyway.
But when she spoke to him so harshly, he had a strange reaction-like a small boy, reprimanded by his mother. He wanted to cry but he'd be damned if he'd let himself.
Mike hadn't shed a tear since his favorite pony died when Mike was just eight years old. He felt such grief, such loss, at the death of the dumb animal, he vowed he'd never let himself feel strongly about anyone or anything again. And he hadn't.
Until this morning, until he discovered that his wife was missing-not at work-not at home-not in communication with him.
He told Janice the story. He couldn't help himself.
"Marcia's so dependable," he said when he had blurted out the truth, "it makes no sense. Marcia wouldn't lie to me, she wouldn't just disappear."
Janice sat on the floor, listening.
"She hasn't lied to you, has she?"
Mike realized that in fact she hadn't. She hadn't said anything to him. one way or another.
"And she hasn't really disappeared," Janice added, "she was home last night and she'll probably be home again tonight. You can discuss it with her then."
"Suppose," Mike could hardly face the possibility, "Suppose she's...."
He shook his head, unable to say it out loud. He buried his face in his hands.
"Suppose she's fooling around?"
"Stop it," Mike ordered, looking up. "That's not what I mean."
But it was what he meant and both Mike and Janice knew it.
Mike buried his head again and his body shook. A dry, harsh sound. No tears, just the heaving, heavy sound of sobs.
Janice went to him and slid onto his lap, holding his head, patting his dark curly hair.
In this moment of closeness, it was natural that Mike should open Janice's robe and place a hungry mouth of the nipple of one of her breasts.
Sitting on his lap, Janice felt his cock stiffening as waves of stimulation moved through her body.
He sucked first, like a child, and then his tongue began to move in the sensual nipping, rotating, massaging rhythms of desire.
One of his hands slid in between her legs and probed her silky pussy. Dry at first, it soon responded to Mike's thrusting fingers and lubricated itself to admit his whole hand, up to the wrist.
"Jesus," Mike said, "I love your cunt, baby. I love to fuck your cunt."
He lifted her from his lap and pulled her onto the floor, kneeling between her spread legs.
"Take it out for me," he order, "take my dick out and put it up your cunt. Beg me to fuck you, baby."
Janice felt the surge of desire, out of control, wanting satisfaction.
In a unprecedented show of independence, she said, "Eat me first. Get down there between my legs and eat me. Lick my pussy, you cocksucker, lick me, suck me, until I come."
She pushed down on his shoulders and Mike, feeling so inadequate and confused about his wife, let her guide him until his head was between her legs.
She curved her fingers through his thick black hair and pulled his face into the wetness of her cunt.
"Suck it," she said fiercely, "suck it, you bastard. Suck it good enough and I'll let you put your cock in it but not until I tell you, not until you've sucked me dry."
Mike's entire face was immersed in the wet, slippery surface. The odor of her woman-musk filled his nostrils, encompassed his whole being. He found her clitoris, stiff, large, with his tongue and closed his lips around it.
She half sat-up and held him by the ears, jerking his head back and forth to stimulate her pleasure as he sucked.
"Lick it, you prick," she hissed, "lick it. Stick your tongue up it. Fuck me with your tongue."
Mike obediently moved his tongue down to her cunt hole and pushed it deep inside her.
She moved his head back and forth rapidly.
"Fuck me," she ordered, "fuck me with your tongue."
Mike tried to reach down to his fly and take out his dick. It throbbed unmercifully now as it bulged against his pants, trying to break free.
But Janice held his head too tightly.
"Lick my ass," she ordered then, "rim me."
Mike had never done that before. He thought of himself as adventurous but he had never kissed any woman's ass.
"Rim me," she ordered and pressed his head further down.
The sweet dung smell of her asshole excited Mike and he drove his tongue into the hole and massaged the opening.
He reached again to release his aching cock and this time succeeded. He pulled himself by his muscular arms up from between her legs. He was ready to fuck now.
"No," she said firmly, "You haven't finished. Suck my cunt until I come."
She pushed him down and again and he let her, burying his face again in the sopping wet, pulsing pussy.
Mike sucked frantically, afraid that any minute his cock was going to shoot a load of jism onto the floor.
"That's it, you prick, you bastard, cocksucker," Janice screamed, her hips rising high into the high. Mike hung onto her legs frantically, trying to keep his tongue in place. "Keep sucking it, suck it, you sonofabitch!"
She held his ears and fucked his mouth with her stiff clit.
"Now," she screamed, "now, now, NOW!"
She rose in the air, her pelvis jerking in giant spasms.
Mike couldn't hold her any more, he let go and watched her body in climatic spasms.
She lay quiet for a moment and just as Mike was about to rise to knees, climb forward and mount her, she instructed him further.
"Lick it," she said quietly but forcefully, "Lick my cunt until it's dry."
Mike was surprised at the pleasantness of her come, its smell, its taste, its texture. Oh, he'd been down on women before but it wasn't his favorite way and he sure as hell had never swallowed their come before.
She lay quietly as he licked between her thighs, in the crack of her buttocks where the come had run down from her cunt, each lip of her swollen, pouting pussy, the little creases in and around her clit. He swallowed every drop of it.
His face glistening with her juices, he pulled himself above her and mounted her. He slipped in easily, the cunt still open and lubricated.
His prick was bursting, swelling even more. Mike didn't remember it ever being this big. He looked down at it as he fucked it in and out of Janice's cunt. He was proud it was so big.
"I'm filling you up, baby," he whispered, "I'm stuffing you full of my hard cock, my stiff prick, it's so big, baby, it's going to bust you in two."
Janice could feel his dick pressing open the walls of her vagina, pushing her apart with its bigness, its hardness.
She was still excited from Mike going down on her. It was the best sex that Janice had ever had with a man, any man.
She lay still and let him fuck her with his mammoth cock, gratefully.
It only took a dozen plunges and Mike's cock exploded deep inside her.
He lay still on top of her until his prick shriveled to its normal size and fell out of her cunt.
Mike rolled over on the floor and lay there, arms akimbo and legs spread, his limp prick hanging out of his open fly.
For some reason, he felt better now about his wife. He knew that Marcia had never enjoyed that kind of sex. Marcia was a virgin when he married her and he felt sure that he was still the only man who'd entered that tight, wifely cunt.
For a moment, the thought that Marcia might be lying in a bed somewhere, a strange man's head between her legs as his had just been with Janice, infuriated him. He'd kill any bastard who put a cock up Marcia. Fury spun in his head. He'd murder the sonofabitch and Marcia, too. Probably, he thought, a jury would even set him free. A crime of passion, that's what they'd call it.
Janice lay quietly. She could feel Mike's relief but there still a tenseness in the air. Why, she wondered, had she let him fuck her? Was she such an easy lay, she asked herself.
And why at the very moment of climax in the best sex she'd ever had with Mike, did she see the dark and sensuous face of that girl whose name she didn't know?
Janice rolled over on the floor and pulled her robe to cover her body.
She thought about her drink date that coming evening with Marnie Andrews and the dream of stardom coursed through her again.
After tonight, she thought, I'll never need Mike Jackson again.
Marcia Jackson was properly impressed with Lance Fisher's penthouse apartment.
The view from the glass-walled living room was quite impressive and Marcia thought that if she lived in such splendor, she'd spend her days out on the terrace watching the great ships enter and leave the New York harbor.
It didn't take long for Lance to mix a pitcher of something cool and alcoholic to drink. It had a minty taste but Lance wouldn't reveal his secret.
"It's my own special brew," he said, "and torture wouldn't convince me to give away my recipe."
He joined Marcia on the terrace.
"The ships are beautiful, aren't they? I think of them as strong, gorgeous women, ploughing the sea of life."
Marcia smiled.
"Ships are always referred to as She, aren't they?"
Lance smiled. "Because they require the skill of a captain to guide them on course."
Marcia smiled vaguely, not understanding the meaning of what Lance was saying.
"Come inside," he said, "it's chilly up this high."
She followed him inside and watched as he slid to the glass terrace doors.
"Follow me," Lance commanded and Marcia did so, obediently at his heels down the parquet hallway to the wall-length closet.
Lance pushed open the folding doors and the automatic light came on.
Marcia didn't at first comprehend what she was seeing. It looked only like a display of some kind of merchandise.
Lance smiled at her and stepped back to watch.
"It's my toy shop," he said, "pick a toy, little girl."
On closer inspection, Marcia understood that the objects were all accessories for sexual pleasure.
"I can't," she stammered, "I don't know what to do with these things."
Lance grinned and reached for the dildoes first.
"Then Daddy will pick out a toy for the little girl."
He led her into the adjacent bedroom.
"Take off your clothes," he ordered simply. It was as though she had come to the doctor's office for an examination.
Marcia stripped and folded her clothes neatly on a chair.
Without the push of passion, she was embarrassed, standing naked before her young, sophisticated boss.
"Lie down on the bed," Lance said, "and spread your legs."
Marcia did so but she was beet-red with embarrassment.
Lance smiled gently at her discomfort.
"Masturbate," he ordered, "and let me watch."
Marcia, having masturbated only a few times in her life, was awkward:
"Touch your breasts first," Lance instructed and pulled up a straight chair and sat in it, the audience at a performance.
Marcia cupped her hands over her breasts and squeezed them gently. The knowledge that her naked vulnerable body was being watched by this attentive young man caused her nipples to stand erect.
She fingered her nipples, rolled them between her fingertips, flicked them with the end of thumbs.
Below, in her groin, she felt desire rising. She felt the secretions in her cunt and the persistent ache that surrounded her hardening clitoris.
"Touch your pussy," Lance told her, "open it up so I can see what you're doing.
She pushed apart the lips of her swelling pussy and slid her eager fingers into the slippery slit.
"Here," Lance said and leaned over to place a large dildo in her hand. "Shove it up your cunt."
Marcia's entrance was tight and small and even the wetness of the sex juices didn't help her force the big, black rubber dildo into her cunt.
Lance stood up for a moment, watching, then sat on the edge of the bed and took the mammoth fake cock in his hand.
"Hold it open for me," he ordered.
Marcia parted the lips of her cunt with both hands.
Lance placed the dildo at the entrance and without compassion, leaned his muscular young body against it until it forced itself into the tight opening.
Marcia groaned in a combination of pain and pleasure.
Lance let go of the dildo and returned to his seat.
"Go on," he said, "fuck yourself." She gripped the dildo with one hand and tried to move it in and out.
"I can't," she moaned, "It's too tight."
"Then play with your clit some more until you open up.
The black rubber dildo still in place, forcing wide her cunt-hole and filling her insides to the point of bursting, Marcia fingered her clitoris with one hand, the other hand rubbing and pulling at the nipples on her breasts.
Lance unzipped his fly and let his stiff prick stand erect, although he continued to sit formally, an audience, on the straight chair.
Marcia moaned with pleasure and took the hand from her breasts and tried again to move the quivering black dildo.
With pressure from her hand, it began to move a little.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Faster it moved and deeper. It was coming all the way out now, then plunging all the way in, deep, all of Marcia's strength behind it.
Her moans were deeper, louder, she was almost to point of climax.
Lance's prick pointed toward the ceiling, throbbing, a wet bubblet on its head.
Suddenly Lance said, "All right, stop now."
It was all that Marcia could do to stop. She wanted to keep the dildo plunging in and out, forcing its fullness into her cunt.
Lance got up from the straight chair, his stiff dick standing out of his pants, pointing directly ahead. He walked out to the hallway and returned with a large vibrator.
"Lift your legs," he instructed Marcia.
The huge black dildo still in place, Marcia could feel it drive itself even deeper as she raised her legs in the air.
Lance handed her the vibrator.
"Shove it," he ordered, "up your asshole."
Marcia took the plastic phallus and blindly felt for the entrance to her rectum. The tip of the vibrator in place, she pushed against the tight muscle.
"Shove it," Lance repeated, "hard."
Marcia pushed with all her strength and felt the plastic head rip past the tight opening and fill her backside. In the pit of her being, she could feel the dildo and the vibrator touching one another through the membrane that separated the two entrances.
"Turn the head of it," Lance said.
Marcia turned the head of the vibrator and it began to shutter mechanically, titillating both her asshole and vagina as the black dildo picked up the vibrations, too.
Lance got up, his stiff prick bobbing in front of him, and sat below her on the bed.
"Play with yourself," he said and as Marcia fondled her breasts and ran a steady rhythm with her finger on her throbbing clitoris, Lance moved the dildo and the vibrator in and out the entrances to Marcia's body. The pleasure was excruciating and Marcia screamed in pleasure, ready to explode in climax when Lance pulled the two fake cocks out of her, leaving her empty, two aching voids begging to be filled.
Marcia writhed in painful desire as Lance went back to the hall closet and came back with the rubber vagina, the rubber cock and balls, the rubber buttocks, and the human female head with the vibrating tongue.
He put the head between Marcia's legs and positioned the tongue to touch her clitoris. When he turned on the machine, the tongue moved in a vibrating motion, stimulating Marcia's twat at super-human speed. Lance put the rubber cock in Marcia's mouth.
"Let me see you suck it," he said.
She took the rubber dick deep in her throat and pretending it was Lance's cock, the hot, stiff prick she'd sucked to explosion the day before, she tongued it and sucked it as the vibrating tongue worked on her clitoris.
Lance pulled the rubber cock out of her mouth.
"I want to see you eat a cunt," he said and placed the fake vagina on her lips.
In her life, Marcia had never seen the female genitals up close before and although was only a vinyl cunt, she was quite fascinated with it. As she followed Lance's instructions to kiss and suck it, she wondered if her own cunt looked like this plastic model. The clitoris of the fake cunt was pliable but the taste was plastic. Marcia wondered what a real pussy would taste like and, unmindful of Lance's orders, she pushed the plastic vagina away.
Lance smiled placatingly at her and threw the fake cunt on the floor beside the bed. He knelt beside her, his erect prong pointing toward her and smiled gently.
"Now," he said, "we'll get down to real thing."
Lance was gone only a moment and when he returned he had a leather whip in his hand.
"Stand up," he ordered Marcia.
She did, remembering the day before, the girl with the whip, and her dream the night before, that girl's cunt coming closer and closer to her lips.
"Bend over."
He brought the whip down across her buttocks, twice, three times, four.
The first time, Marcia cried out in surprise and pain.
As the leather straps continued to slap her ass, raising long red welts, she felt the excitement grow between her legs, her aching clitoris stiffened and begged for release.
"Please," she cried to Lance, who continued to pelt her with the leather whip, "please fuck me."
He dropped the whip and grabbed the black, rubber dildo in his hand. From the back, he shoved it roughly up her cunt.
"Fuck me," Marcia begged, not caring whether the cock was real or not, only wanting release from the rising pain of sexual need.
He pulled her upright, the black rubber cock jutting from between her legs.
"No," he commanded her, "you fuck me."
Marcia stood stunned and helpless but only for a moment.
She forcefully pushed down Lance's trousers, ripped down his jockey shorts and pushed him face down on the bed.
With no preparation, she found his asshole and shoved, her whole body weight against the rubber dick, her fake cock into Lance's nether hole.
"God," he screamed as the big cock pushed deep into him, "Jesus, it hurts."
"Good," Marcia said between her teeth and grabbed his shoulders with her hands, fucking both Lance and herself at the same time with the double-ended dildo.
She'd never had the sensation of "taking", of plunging into the orifice of someone else. She felt strong and aggressive and the more Lance begged for mercy, the harder she pumped her cock into his ass.
The rubber dick rubbed furiously against Lance's prostate gland and suddenly he howled with pleasure and his cock spurted across the bed.
He groaned with pain as Marcia pulled the dildo out of him.
Marcia, taking an aggressive role for the first time in her life, lay down beside him, her head toward his feet.
Gently, with appreciation for the new world Lance had opened up to her, Marcia took his cock into her mouth and sucked it until it grew erect again.
Lance smiled and, just as gently, parted Marcia's legs and found her clitoris with his slowly moving, teasing tongue.
He brought her to climax quickly and after she had shuddered with ecstasy, he took his cock, still erect, from her mouth and turned around and mounted her.
She brought her knees up high to give him entrance to wet and hungry mouth of her cunt.
His stiff, red prick slid into her quite easily and, as though he had all the time in the world to fuck this particular woman, Lance moved slowly in and out, in and out, until their pleasure grew so intense that his pelvis, out of control, slammed furiously until they came together, crying out, pressing their bodies so hard together that it seemed they merged into one being.
Later, Lance said, smiling at her, "That was lesson two. You've still got more to learn."
"I can hardly wait," Marcia laughed and gently squeezed Lance's worn, limp prick.
Mike Jackson walked the streets of lower New York all afternoon, pacing, wondering, frantic with worry about his wife. He was afraid that she was somewhere hurt-she was kidnapped, mugged, raped. But he was more afraid that she was safe and secure in the arms of another man.
The greatest fear Mike had was that he kill her if he found out she was unfaithful to him.
He tried to talk some sense into himself.
"I fuck around," he said to himself, "I ball every chick I can get to spread her legs." But he couldn't reason with himself. His feelings were too ingrained. "She's my wife, goddamit, and nobody else can fuck her."
Mid-afternoon in a run-down tavern, he picked up a middle-aged whore, a tacky type that usually he wouldn't have looked at twice.
But today, he knew, he needed a victim. He needed to hurt somebody the way Marcia was hurting him.
Upstairs from the bar in a dingy room, Mike hit the whore on the face, on the neck, across the back, until she was dizzy. The woman tried to holler, call for help but every time she opened her mouth, Mike struck her hard again.
At last she collapsed on the rusty iron bedstead and Mike tore her clothes off, savagely bit her flaccid breasts, rammed his fist into her cunt and holding her jaws open with his large, strong hands, fucked her in the mouth until his anger and his jism shot down the old whore's throat.
He threw a ten dollar bill on the floor, zipped up his pants and left, feeling only a little bit less tense, less furious, less violent.
Back in the offices of Blue Films, Inc., Marcia typed efficiently and wondered how long she could keep her secret, her new-found lifestyle, from her husband, Mike.
CHAPTER SIX
Janice paraded back and forth in front of the mirror. She'd been dressed for over an hour and it was still to early to leave the apartment for her drink date with Marnie Andrews, the famous and important agent.
She knew that she should not arrive early-it would make her look anxious. Janice didn't want anything to go wrong with this meeting, her entire career hinged on tonight.
She ran her hands over her thighs, cased in skin-tight blue jeans, perfectly faded. The halter top was multi-colored silk and clung revealingly to every curve of her breasts and to the outline of her large nipples.
She had washed her hair twice and it was silky and long, falling softly over her slender shoulders.
The face pack had given her complexion a fresh shine and the thorough fucking bout that she had with Mike Jackson that morning had erased all lines of stress and tension from her perfect young face.
"Look at me, world," she said in her head as she twirled before the mirror, "I'm going to be a star."
She splurged on a taxi ride to Marnie Andrews' uptown apartment.
If she was going to be a star, she might as well start acting like one. She'd made sixteen dollars in tips waiting tables the night before and she spent seven of them on the taxi ride uptown.
In a grand gesture, she over tipped the driver. "Gee, sister," he said, "Thanks a lot."
An elegantly restored brownstone was the proper setting for a woman like Marnie Andrews. Everything that Marnie did was impeccable, in perfect taste. She was, as even her many enemies admitted, a lady of class.
Marnie had the top floor of the brownstone with a small terrace overlooking a private courtyard below. The apartment was perfectly appointed with rare knick-knacks, original paintings by old masters, exquisite antiques. The ashtrays were cut crystal, the doorknobs hand-rubbed brass. Nothing was too good for Marnie Andrews and very little was too expensive for such a successful woman.
Marnie had been born in a poor section of the Bronx, the only child of a runaway father and a mother relegated to scrubbing floors in the Flatiron building. At an early age, Marnie knew that she would rise above her birth, far above it. And so she had-with a combination of talent, good business sense and a ruthless streak that kept her from hesitating as she pushed other people off the steep ladder of success.
She waited now for the new girl to arrive. Dressed in a silk lounging gown, her short red hair curled in a cap around her strong, handsome face, Marnie smiled at herself in the hallway mirror.
The doorbell rang.
Marnie looked into her own eyes in the reflection.
"Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly."
Marnie walked confidently down to press the buzzer.
Janice was not surprised at the elegance of Marnie's home surroundings. She had expected as much from meeting Marnie in her office. She knew at once this was a woman of fine and expensive taste.
Even so, Janice was not accustomed to finding herself in a room where the ashtrays cost more than a week of her waitressing paid and she was nervous about knocking something over, destroying or breaking one of the obviously rare and irreplaceable knick-knacks that sat on the tables.
Combined with her nervousness at the importance of this event and the possibility that the outcome of this evening could affect her life forever, Janice stuttered slightly when Marnie asked her what she'd like to drink. For the life of her, Janice could not remember the name of a single drink.
Marnie was clearly aware of the girl's nervousness and tried to make her more comfortable.
"How about a scotch and soda," she offered helpfully, 'that's easy enough to bear. This is the real stuff," she smiled, holding up the bottle, "I brought a case of it back from Scotland this winter."
Janice smiled nervously and nodded her head in agreement.
"Cheers," Marnie said as she handed Janice the drink. "To a new friendship."
Janice smiled nervously again. She couldn't think of any thing to say.
Marnie assessed the girl again.
A true sexy quality, innocent but knowing, the kind of woman any man would want to take to bed but still not be embarrassed to introduce her to his mother. Marnie knew a commercial quality when she saw it. One good movie role and she could make this kid a star.
"Tell me about yourself," she urged.
Janice swallowed hard.
"I've only been in New York a few years," she began, "and I've been taking acting lessons and trying to get a chance to be in a play."
"I'm sure," Marnie offered, "with your looks, you've been chased around the desk by a lot of casting directors."
"Not too many," Janice admitted. "Most of the ones I've seen are not interested in women. They're-" She didn't know whether to say "they're fags" or "they're queer" or....
"They're gay," Marnie said easily, settling the dilemma.
"Yes," Janice smiled, relieved. This woman was really very kind, she thought, she's trying to make me feel at home, to relax. Janice appreciated the effort.
"Are you?"
Janice looked up, startled. "Am I gay?" Janice was too stunned to answer.
"You never can tell," Marnie smiled. "Well, are you?"
Janice thought about the dark and sensuous girl whose face she couldn't forget-but she had never been intimate with a woman, of course she wasn't gay.
But she couldn't say it. She only shook her head, indicating No.
"I am, you know," Marnie said easily, smiling. "If we're going to work together, we might as well have it all up front."
In fact, Marnie thought it wasn't necessary to tell anyone that she was gay. It seemed to be a well-known fact in every facet of show business and people reveled in whispering gossip about the great Marnie Andrews' sex life.
"Oh?" Janice tried to sound casual. "I didn't know."
Marnie thought, either the girl is lying or she really is naive.
Janice was stunned at Marnie's revelation. She had never heard a woman admit her homosexuality before. Oh, she'd met a number of male homosexuals who camped around and made it clear that they were fags but she never met a woman who claimed it. She would not have been surprised if Marnie were a tough, butch type, overweight with a cropped haircut and a leather jacket-but this handsome, successful woman with her impeccable taste and sense of class....
"Does that bother you?" Marnie delighted in throwing people off guard. But she had a way of doing it that always seemed as though she had your very best interests at heart.
"Of course not," Janice lied. It did make a difference-she looked at Marnie with different eyes now. The face of the dark girl flashed across her mind and she couldn't take her eyes off Marnie's strong, handsome face.
"Well," Marnie continued, "Then tell me about yourself."
"I grew up in a small town," Janice started out and continued talking about her background, her life at home with her parents, her dreams and ambitions but she was talking mechanically, the words coming out of their own volition because her real thoughts were about the woman she was talking, a fuzzy conglomeration of curiosity and fascination.
Janice felt a tightening between her legs, a soft wetness that meant her clitoris was stiffening, her cunt opening in anticipation and need.
Marnie knew the look and played a waiting game. She never liked to give the impression that she was seducing anyone. She much preferred it to be a natural outcome of the evening-as much the desire of the young woman as it was of hers. And Marnie had perfected the act of making young women, even straight young women, desire her.
Several scotches later, Janice's speech began to slur. She knew that she was getting drunk and that she should not, not in front of this woman, not in front of the agent who could make her a star, not front of this incredibly sensuous creature that she wanted to make love to. Janice stopped her thoughts abruptly. She wasn't eager to admit that she wanted to go to bed with Marnie Andrews-she didn't want to think about herself as "queer", as one of "them", but the fact was that the growing urge in her groin was clear evidence that for this night and with this woman, anyway, Janice had the feelings of a lesbian.
"No need for you to go home, Janice," Marnie Andrews said but Janice could hardly hear her through her drunkenness. "I don't think you're in any condition to be wandering around the city by yourself."
And so it was that Janice woke up the next morning in Marnie Andrews' bed, in Marnie Andrews' arms.
Her first thought was, What Happened!
She had no recollection of anything sexual going on.
She looked at Marnie's face, serene in sleep.
Moments later, Marnie's eyes opened and she smiled down at Janice.
"Good morning," the older woman said easily and yawned. "How're you?"
"I feel all right," Janice said, puzzled. "What happened?"
Marnie gently brushed the long hair off Janice's shoulder and stroked the pretty, young face.
"Don't worry," she said quietly, "Nothing happened."
Janice sighed, relieved that she had not done something that she had memory of-but she was conscious of the growing feeling in her groin again. The nearness of this woman, the soft, sweet, early-morning smell....
Funny, Janice thought to herself, I never knew before the difference-the feeling of a woman's arms, so soft, so comforting-a woman's smell, sweet and light, so different from the early morning smell of a male body.
Janice felt herself pressing closer.
She realized that the soft pressure on her arm was the weight of Marnie's breast.
She looked up hesitantly.
Marnie was charmed by the girl's naivete, her shyness and she tried to make the inevitable a natural, comfortable act.
She cupped the girl's face in her hand and tipped it up toward her own lips.
Their mouths met softly first, then hungrily, Janice's lips opening spontaneously to admit Marnie's hot and probing tongue.
Marnie's hands moved expertly on Janice's breasts, knowing precisely where and when to touch and for how long.
Her long fingers trailed from the breasts down Janice's flat stomach and entwined themselves in the mass of pubic hair, already damp.
The lips of Janice's cunt were parted, swollen, waiting for Marnie's fingers which explored every inch from her buttocks forward and found Janice's stiff, aching clitoris and touched it gently.
A moan came out of Janice, "Oh, yes!"
"No," Marnie whispered, "no, not like this."
She removed her hand from Janice's ready cunt and traced a path with her tongue from Janice's breasts, over her midriff and her belly, through the tangled pubic hair to the quivering, waiting pleasure spot.
Janice groaned, screamed with the intense pleasure. She grabbed the headboard above her and grasped it tight to help herself keep still so that Marnie could continue to kiss and suck her cunt.
"What do you want me to do, honey? Tell me what you want me to do!"
"Suck it," Janice screamed, "Suck my cunt, suck it hard, suck it now!"
She pushed Marnie's head back into place.
"I'm going to suck you, baby," Marnie mumbled from between Janice's legs, "like you've never been sucked. You're going to scream for me, honey, beg me for it, you've going to come by the bucketful, come all over my face."
Janice kept pulling the woman's face into her cunt.
"Please! Please, suck me, suck my cunt!"
Still smiling, Marnie grasped the sticky, aching clitoris with her lips and moved her tongue in the expert way of women who truly enjoy sucking another woman's cunt. She buried her face in Janice's juices, felt the sticky wetness across her face, in her eyebrows, lashes, nostrils, covered every where with the juice of Janice's passion.
Marnie worked at teasing Janice, bringing her nearly to orgasm and stopping. Ordering Janice to beg her again, beg her to suck her cunt.
At last, she took Janice on the long trip upward. The girl's groan became a scream and her body rose and flailed with orgasm. From her hot cunt, a shot of come that covered Marnie's face.
When Janice lay still, breathing hard, Marnie lifted herself up beside her.
"You must have come for a minute and a half," Marnie grinned.
"At least," Janice agreed, "I've never come like that, never in my life."
"It takes an expert," Marnie laughed, praising herself.
Janice ran her hand across Marnie's face.
"You've covered with me," she said.
Marnie licked her lips.
"I love it," she smiled, "it's a terrific facial. Does wonders for the skin."
Janice wondered fleetingly if that was how Marnie stayed so youthful looking.
Marnie rolled over on her back, still looking at Janice.
Janice leaned on one elbow over the older woman.
She wanted to make love to her but she didn't know how.
As if reading her mind, Marnie said, "I'll show you. I'll tell you what to do."
Janice kissed her, tasting her own love juices on Marnie's lips, then she lowered her head and took a nipple in her mouth, fascinated by the feel of it against her tongue, the roughness of the flesh as it hardened, harder and harder. She kissed the soft flesh around it and moved her mouth over Marnie's stomach, down, down, down....
She felt the prickle of Marnie's stiff pubic hair against her exploring tongue. Between the legs of the older woman, Janice parted the lips of Marnie's swollen, eager cunt and grasped the extended clitoris in her mouth. Like a little cock, she thought, and began to tongue it.
"Higher, honey, higher, yes, right there," Marnie guided her, "Don't break the rhythm, keep it up...."
Janice felt her jaws ache from the constant motion. Her face was getting wet with Marnie's hot fluids.
"Don't stop, baby, don't let up, suck it, suck it," Marnie twisted in excitement.
Janice thought her jaw was going to break but the excitement, the taste, the smell, drove her on. What pleasure it was to watch the woman writhe above her, begging her to make her come.
Marnie exploded suddenly, not such a large or lengthy come as Janice's.
"Was it good?" She looked imploringly at Marnie.
"You'll get better," Marnie promised. "My jaw got tired," Janice admitted, "I'm sorry."
"You'll get used to it," Marnie said, "It just takes practice. I'll see to it that you get a lot of practice."
Feeling more comfortable, Janice could kid with her new lover.
"I bet you will."
The very next day Janice had two auditions with repertory companies and a promise of a chance to read for a Broadway play.
But her feeling about Marnie was not based solely on what the lady agent could do for her career.
Janice was equally as hung up about what Marnie did for her in bed. She never knew that sex could be so wonderful.
Mike Jackson waited impatiently for his wife to come home. At six o'clock promptly, she walked through the door.
"Where the hell have you been?" he screamed loudly.
"Working," she answered innocently.
"I walked over to your office today," he said, standing fiercely over her. "They said you were home, sick."
"I didn't tell you," Marcia said quickly, covering for herself, "but I took another job. I didn't want to quit the law firm until I was sure I would like this new position, so I've been calling in sick."
Mike exhaled with relief.
He pounded the fist of one hand in the other, angry at himself for all his worry.
Then he started laughing, lightly at first and finally, without control, hysterical laughter.
"Mike," his wife said, "what's the matter?"
He couldn't stop laughing.
"Honey, what is it?" Marcia leaned over him, concerned.
He tried to tell her.
"I thought...."
And he started laughing again.
"See," he said, gasping for breath, "I thought...."
Again, hysterical laughter.
He bent double in the chair and pounded his fist on the table.
"I thought," he screamed, still laughing, "that you took off with another man!"
She laughed too, but not quite for the same reasons.
"I thought you were making love with some other guy!"
He continued laughing.
"Can you believe it? I thought my wife was being unfaithful to me!" More laughter.
Marcia began to cook supper while Mike continued to laugh.
When it was finally out of his system, he stood up, still smiling, and walked up to her. He put his arms protectively around her.
"I never knew what a jealous guy I am, honey, until today. You know, if I knew some other guy put his cock in you, I think I'd kill you both."
Marcia smiled but her stomach got queasy at the thought that some day she would have to tell Mike.
He interrupted the thought.
"Tell me," he said, "about your new job."
"Well," Marcia said, hesitating, wondering how close to the truth she should come. "It's quite exciting, really. It's with a movie company."
"No kidding," Mike seemed pleased.
"I'm secretary to the president."
"More money?" Mike's mind never lost sight of the important things.
"The same," Marcia said, "but the job's a little more interesting. I was really getting bored with the law firm, the same dreary corporate mergers and legal documents, day after day."
"What movie company is it?"
She knew the name of the firm would give her away.
"The producer's name is Lance Fisher," she parried, "he's president of the firm."
Mike pictured a pot-bellied elderly and balding man. Alfred Hitchcock, maybe, or Otto Preminger.
"Don't you let him chase you around the desk," Mike grinned, very sure of himself now. Marcia smiled demurely. "Mike!"
How wonderful, Mike thought, to have a wife who was shockable. In an age of decadence, he had found a madonna.
Marcia smiled a sphinx-like smile and served dinner to her husband.
How, she wondered, how would she ever tell him?
That night, Marcia again dreamed about the girl with the whip, the crack as it struck the floor beside her, the bushy cunt coming closer, closer, closer as Marcia, surrounded by stone walls, fell to her knees.
Mike slept, his arm possessively across his wife, a happy husband.
So relieved was Mike that his wife had not betrayed him that for several days he didn't knock at his next-door-neighbor's door.
He didn't know, of course, that Janice wasn't there, she was staying full-time now with Marnie Andrews who was using all her professional power, and she had a lot of power, to make her new girlfriend a movie star.
What Marnie had not expected was that she would find herself feeling something more than lust for the girl.
For the first time in her considerable life, Marnie Andrews-although she refused to say the word out loud-was in love.
Janice, however, was simply high on the possibility of stardom and on the incredible satisfaction of having a completely fulfilling sex life for the very first time.
Down in their village loft, George and Freddy had begun production of the t-shirts with the money given to them by their straight partner, Mike Jackson and were in the process of deciding how to cut Mike out and keep the profit for themselves.
"He has a got a paper that proves he put up the money," George reminded Freddy. "I don't want to end up in the clink."
"I don't want to end up with that six foot stud walking off with our fortune, either," Freddy said.
"Listen," George said, "I've got an idea."
Freddy sat down to listen.
"Mike has probably got that paper in his apartment, wouldn't you say?"
"Probably," Freddy replied, "I don't think he's smart enough to rent a safe deposit box."
"I'll sneak up there tonight and steal it."
"Oh, come on," Freddy said, "if he wakes up and catches you, he'll kill you. He's a big bastard."
"He won't catch me." George liked the idea, he liked the danger, the adventure of it. "If it looks like I can't pull it off, then I won't try."
"I don't like it," Freddy argued.
"I love it," George grinned, "I'll get the paper, we'll destroy it and we can cut him out before the profits start coming in."
George's mammoth prick was getting hard at the thought of the excitement.
He changed his clothes and put on cloth-soled moccasins, cotton pants, knit jersey, a pair of leather gloves. Nothing that would crinkle or make a noise.
"Don't go," Freddy begged, "I'm afraid."
"You just wait til I get home," George winked and placed Freddy's chubby hand over his bulging crotch. "I'll have something nice for you."
Marcia awoke from the dream in a cold sweat.
She slipped out of bed and into the kitchen. Milk.
Warm Milk, it always helped her sleep.
Her groin ached from the sexual excitement of the dream.
She warmed the milk and sat alone in the dark living room to drink it.
The fire escape window in the living room was open and George was already in the room before Marcia, her mind still on the girl with the whip, noticed another presence.
She gasped, ready to scream, but George slapped a leather-gloved hand across her mouth and pulled her close, her back to him.
Jesus, George thought, this is exciting.
He looked, his eyes slowly adjusting to dark, around the room, hoping to find some rope to tie her up with.
Marcia struggled but the man held her tightly against him.
She felt the enormous wad that was stiffening in George's trousers. It pressed into her buttocks, growing larger, hotter.
Fear gave way to desire and Marcia moved against it, pressing back.
George's cock was almost to full size, a foot long, as big around as a man's wrist.
He felt the woman pressing against him.
My God, he thought to himself, she's turned on.
George had never found a woman who could take his foot long prick but he'd often fantasized forcing a girl, jamming it in her, listening to her scream as he plunged in and out with his enormous dick.
He wanted, at least once in his life, to shoot his load into a cunt instead of up Freddy's plump and hungry ass.
George remembered how much he disliked Mike Jackson, what a sonofabitch the man was, a hustler, a straight bigot. A man like Mike Jackson, George thought, would consider his wife to be his property. Raping Mike Jackson's wife would be the highest indignity, the worst insult, possible.
George pushed Marcia down on the couch, still holding his gloved hand across her mouth.
He pulled open the terry-cloth robe that covered her.
In the dark, he couldn't see her full-breasted body, full hips, wide thighs, curly pubic bush. He only knew that he was going to cram his schlong, his twelve-inch spike up her tight little cunt, he was going to make her take every goddam inch and he was going to shoot his jism hot and hard into her until it came clear out her eyeballs.
He laughed to himself.
Maybe he would be the father of Mike Jackson's first son! A faggot kid, George giggled out loud, a faggot kid with a foot-long dick.
He pushed Mike Jackson's wife's legs apart and knelt between them.
Marcia continued to struggle-she thought that she should-but she was excited by this stranger, this man in the dark.
Was he young, old, black, white?
She only knew he was a man and when he tore open the front of his trousers, he was a superman.
She saw the shadow of his fierce organ first and, she couldn't help herself, she reached for it with eager hands. It took both her hands to reach around it, a cock as big as a man's forearm.
She ran her frantic fingers the length of it-it seemed to go on forever, stiff, throbbing, ready to ramrod its way into any cunt it wanted.
She opened wide and aimed the magnificent weapon at her pussy which seemed to be widening itself in anticipation.
Placing the magnificent head of the cock in the opening, she wrapped her arms around her assailant's hips and drove him into her.
The pain was so excruciating that she bit hard into George's leather glove to keep from screaming. She mustn't scream. The assailant might kill her-worse yet, her husband Mike might hear and come running to her aid. He had told her that he would kill any man who put a prick in her and kill her, too. She bit hard into the leather glove and pulled down on the man's lean hips.
George was stunned that Mike Jackson's wife was not fighting him--it seemed, in fact, that she was helping him, egging him on.
His cock was in her, splitting her wide. He felt her biting into his gloved palm with the pain of it.
He reared back with his hips and plunged in hard.
Oh god! Marcia thought that she was being torn in two pieces. Tears streamed from his cheeks and both her fists clenched so hard that she tore her flesh.
Don't stop, she wanted to scream. Don't stop fucking me with that enormous cock, keep pushing it into me, make me take it, every inch of it, give it to me!
George plunged into Mike Jackson's wife with terrible excitement, frightening himself with his viciousness. He was going to shove that foot long weapon of his right through the top of her fucking head.
Slam!
Slam!
Slam!
He pulled all twelve inches out of her and drove it back inside again. She twisted with the pain.
All these years George had wanted to shove his dick into a woman-and no woman would allow it, no woman would take his freak-show rod.
Well, this one would, this one would take it all, every inch, and love the pain of it. Slam! Slam! Slam!
Marcia came, her cunt grabbing the pounding cock on its way in and out.
George felt the muscles contracting-what a sensation. Nothing like fucking Freddy up the asshole. This is was a whole different world!
He kept on fucking. George could keep the ramrod hard as steel for hours while he masturbated. Tonight, however, he knew he would come soon.
Marcia's cunt exploded again.
George kept on slamming.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
She came again. The juice was dripping out, past George's huge penis, spreading underneath her ass on the couch.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
George was flying, he'd never been on such a sexual high. He wished he could keep from coming, keep the ramrod stiff for an hour, hours, all night long. He didn't want the feeling to ever end.
In.
Out.
In.
He felt Marcia's cunt contract in orgasm again. Squeezing his stick organ, trying to force his come into her body.
Out.
In.
He couldn't hold it back much longer. Out.
All the way out.
He felt the night air hit his boiling stiff pecker before he plunged back into Marcia's hot and pulsing cunt.
In.
Deep. Deeper. All the way.
George couldn't hold it back now and he shot a load of come into Mike Jackson's wife. A quart, he thought, it's got to be quart, it just keeps shooting.
Marcia felt the hard spray from his cock. It coated her insides, rolled out her cunt hole, flooded the sofa underneath her ass.
The foot-long cock wilted and George got off her.
She didn't scream as George expected. She smiled at him and took his organ in her hand and pulled it to her and kissed it gratefully.
He stood there, looking down at her, as she tried to bring him to erection by sucking on the tip end of his dick.
He wondered where the papers were.
His eyes traveled round the room and on the coffee table he saw the briefcase that Mike had carried with him the day they signed the papers. He'd bet that's where the papers were at this moment.
He pushed Mike Jackson's wife away from his cock.
George didn't need a woman to suck him off, Freddy was an expert at that.
But, looking at Marcia, Mike Jackson's wife, George figured he could arrange to meet her again and ram his pecker up her hot cunt. He liked it better than Freddy's fat asshole.
George took the briefcase from the coffee table and climbed back out the window onto the fire escape.
Marcia watched him as he climbed down to the street and prayed she'd meet him again sometime. Her sore cunt testified to the fact that George, the faggot, was a prize-winning woman-fucker.
And back at the loft, George tore open the briefcase.
The papers were there.
Freddy threw them in a metal wastebasket and dropped a match into it.
As they watched the papers burn, Freddy said, "There goes our business partner, sweetheart. Now we'll be rich together."
"Yeah," George said, still thinking of Mike Jackson's wife, the way her cunt milked his cock dry. "Sure."
"Hey," Freddy said, "You owe me something, remember?"
Freddy reached for George's fly and took out the object of his affections.
He dropped to his knees at George's feet and took it into his mouth.
"George," Freddy said startled, "it smells like cunt."
George laughed and quickly covered, "Oh, come on. Me?"
Freddy shrugged and sucked George's cock to a stand, trying to ignore the smell.
Freddy knew the smell of cunt only too well. As a child, his nursemaid had forced him to suck her off every afternoon. Freddy vowed when he grew up, he'd never have to smell another cunt.
George fucked Freddy's mouth, thinking all the way about the marvelous cunt of Mike Jackson's wife.
He had to devise a plan to get into her again. Marcia was gone when Mike Jackson awoke the next morning. He had no appointments so he didn't miss his briefcase.
He did, however, puzzle over the large stain on the sofa seat. He rubbed his finger over it and smelled but it had been scrubbed clean with a cleaning fluid by his neat wife, Marcia, and Mike assumed that she must have spilled her morning coffee on that spot.
At Blue Films, Inc., Marcia sat sedately in her secretary's chair and opened mail with a silver opener.
Had it been a dream?
Impossible. Her cunt still quivered with soreness and residual excitement.
Was it a man that entered her?
Or some prehistoric animal?
The largest cock in the world, she was sure of that. The ultimate cock, the super prick, the goddamnedest piece of dick in the universe.
She had to find him again.
She had to have that super cock shoved up her hole one more time.
When she took the mail into Lance Fisher that morning, he seemed to her to be but a little boy. She remembered the size of Lance's prick and smiled in pity.
No man could be a match for her midnight caller.
She had wanted to suck that prick, to feel it become enormous, to watch it grow and pulse as her tongue enticed it.
He had pulled it from her and she never got to feel it.
She didn't have the chance to feel it grow inside her throat and fill it, to shoot its load into the deep recesses of her belly.
She had to find him.
Mike Jackson went to the apartment next door and rapped twice on the door. No answer.
He called.
"Hey, Janice!"
Mike was feeling good.
His wife was faithful to him and he was involved in a business deal that was sure to make him rich.
He felt like driving the old cock into his good friend Janice's always available cunt.
But there was no answer.
Disappointed, Mike went back to his own apartment.
His cock was hard in anticipation of a fuck with Janet and there he was, he laughed at himself, stuck with a hard cock and nobody to stick it in.
He opened his pants and started pulling on it gently. Goddammit!
He shoved the erect organ back inside his pants.
Damned if he was going to sit in his apartment and jerk off when there were so many available women in the world.
In the park nearby, he walked, hands in his pockets, hoping no one would notice his mischievous cock which refused to lie back down.
There was a slight drizzle of rain and Mike looked up at the gray sky and let the rain roll down the creases in his tough, manly face.
Under a tree he saw her.
She was no more than fifteen, maybe sixteen, but she had the body of a woman.
He was drawn to her.
"Hi," he said, "what are you doing out in the rain. You'll get a cold."
"I don't give a shit," she said and stuck her lower lip out.
"Do your folks know where you are?"
She laughed.
"My folks," she said "are in Wisconsin and they don't only not know where I am, they don't give a hot goddam."
Mike took off his jacket and wrapped it around her.
"My old man," she said, "copped out. I was living with him over on East 3rd Street but they evicted us because we couldn't make the rent. He just freaked out and I haven't seen him since."
Mike pushed the wet hair out of her young face.
"Come on up to my place, honey," he said, "you can get into some dry clothes."
She followed him without a question.
In the apartment, she undressed and hung her wet garments over various pieces of furniture.
Naked, her breasts were rich, full globes with pure pink nipples. Hard from the cold and wet, the nipples when erect were as large as the end of Mike's forefinger.
Jesus, he wanted to suck those tits.
She walked around, quite at ease in her all together.
"You got an old lady, huh?"
Mike grinned.
"How ja know?"
"Your pad's too neat. All those pots and pans and things. I can tell."
Mike reached out and easily lifted her into his arms. He walked into the bedroom and put her on the spread.
"I don't want to suck it," she said suddenly, "I hate sucking it."
Mike grinned and opened up his fly.
"You don't have to," he said, "it's ready to go."
He wanted to suck her tits and tried to, taking the hard erections in his mouth and tonguing them.
"Don't," she said, pushing him off.
"Don't you want me to make love to you?"
"Love?" The young girl laughed loud. "Love? Man, all I want is for you to fuck me. Shove that prick in my cunt and get it over with."
Mike placed the head of his stiff cock between her legs and drove it in but it was not a pleasant fuck for him. He liked having his cock sucked. He liked sucking tits. He might as well be back in the Army, his cock getting off in the glory hole.
Suddenly, he was pissed off.
Who the hell did this kid think she was, ordering him around?
He pulled his cock out of her and before she could say another thing, he stuck his tongue deep in her mouth and started fingering her tits.
She mumbled and tried to pull away but he continued kissing her and playing with her nipples.
When he had satisfied himself there, he straddled her shoulder and pushed his stiff cock between her lips.
"Suck it, you little cunt," he growled, "you little whole, suck my hot cock."
She sucked it fiercely, seeming to enjoy being forced to do so. As it got harder, he drove it deeper into her throat, fucking her hard and shooting his sperm into her stomach.
"No fair, man," she said when he pulled his limp cock out. "You didn't do nothing for me."
He wasn't about to suck the kid's cunt.
"Play with yourself," he ordered and sat and watched her spread her legs and shove two fingers up her ass. The other hand she used to rub her clitoris roughly until she came.
"Now get your clothes on and get out of here," he growled.
When she was gone, Mike went to the coffee table to get his briefcase.
He had a lawyer friend from Army days and he planned to use his services, free, of course, to look over the contracts he had signed with the fags.
The briefcase was gone.
That little cunt, Mike thought.
He raced down the stairs and out into the rain, now coming down hard, to look for the girl but she was long gone, out of sight.
Son of a bitch!
He'd just have to get the fags to draw up another contract.
Mike shrugged at the loss. It was a simple enough procedure to go down to the fags' loft and have them sign another copy of the agreement.
The foolish little cunt, that kid he had picked up, taking his briefcase. What the hell was a kid like that going to do with his briefcase, filled with contracts, meaningless to anyone but him, and old business cards?
She'd probably look it over, see there was nothing she could convert to cash, and dump it in an ashcan somewhere. If he was really lucky, someone would find it, see his name and address inside and return it to him. He'd had the case a long time and he considered it to be lucky.
Inside his apartment, Mike straightened the covers on the bed. He wouldn't want Marcia to know that he'd been balling chicks on their marital bed. He took a can of spray scent from the bathroom and squirted it around the room. Hell, he thought, Marcia couldn't smell sex anyway. But it never hurts to cover all your bases.
That done, Mike threw on his raincoat and started walking in the rain, his long strides sending constant splashes through the growing puddles. He walked downtown and west, toward the apartment of the faggots.
When he arrived at the loft, he buzzed the downstairs buzzer. No answer. Shit, they weren't home.
A moment later, someone who lived in the building came downstairs, going outside. Mike seized the opportunity to go inside while the door was open and jogged up the flights of stairs to the faggots' loft.
No answer to his hearty knock on the door.
"Freddy," Mike called through the door, "George, it's Mike. I need to see you-it's business."
The elderly superintendent came slowly up the staircase, swinging a pail of soap water and carrying a mop. He set the pail on the hallway floor, soaked the mop and sloshed the dirty water around the hall floors.
"Freddy," Mike called again, "George?"
The elderly superintendent looked up at Mike with glazed, tired eyes.
"You looking for those two, you're out of luck," he said and returned to his mopping.
"What do you mean?" Mike felt a tremor of suspicion in his system.
"They cut out," the old super said, "left this morning, lock, stock and barrel, took their machinery and everything. Know anybody who wants to rent a loft?"
"Left?" Mike paced in a hysterical fury. "They can't have left-no, it's not possible. They must have left an address, a forwarding address."
The old super shrugged and sloshed the mop to the far end of the hall. "Not with me, they didn't. They seemed to be in a terrible hurry to get out of town."
With my four thousand dollars, Mike grimaced. With the four thousand dollars that Marcia's beloved grandfather had given her.
Fuck! What the hell was Mike going to tell his wife?
Back at his apartment, soaked now to the skin, Mike stripped and lit a Fire in the ancient fireplace in their living room. Holding his hands up to the flame, he rubbed his body until the damp, cold skin began to warm with He'd have to tell Marcia, he reprimanded himself. She'd throw a fit, he knew, and what the hell, she had a right. It was their nest egg and he'd blown it out the window.
If he could just find that hippy chick and the briefcase, he could get a court order, find the bastards and sue their queer asses off.
Maybe, he thought, she didn't take it. Maybe he misplaced or maybe Marcia had cleaned the apartment and moved it to another spot.
Naked, he began to search.
Under chairs, in closets and cupboards, behind the cushions of the sofa.
That's where he found it-the business card from Marcia's office.
BLUE FILMS' INC., LANCE FISHER, PRODUCER.
The address was on the card and a phone number.
Mike dialed.
"This is the office of Blue Films. Mr. Fisher is not in at the moment, please leave your name and number at the sound of the beep...."
A goddamned recording.
It was the middle of the fucking afternoon, Mike thought, where was Marcia? Why wasn't she answering the goddammed phone?
At the Madison and 30th Street offices of Blue Films, Inc., the heavy plate glass door was locked.
Peering inside, Mike saw no one.
It was a conventional enough office, he thought, and wondered only for a moment what Blue Films meant. Maybe it was a chain-Blue Films, Red Films, Yellow Films, Pink Films....
He looked at the business card again. "Studio facilities," it said, and gave a small printed address on the lower West Side in the warehouse district.
He hopped a downtown bus, so anxious to get his confession to his wife over with that he could not sit down, he hung from the strap nervously, although there were plenty of empty seats.
He thought perhaps Marcia might forgive him and everything would remain status quo.
On the other hand, perhaps she'd throw a fit and demand that he get a job, a paying job of any kind, regardless of whether or not it was worth the talents of a man like himself.
Shit.
What the hell would he do then?
He couldn't leave her, he couldn't dump his wife. She supported him and he needed the security of her responsible, income-producing nature. And what would he tell his folk show could he leave such a perfect wife?
Hell, he thought, I could dump her and move in with some other broad-but that thought was cut short. He'd fucked a lot of chicks but, in all his fucking, Mike had never found another woman so willing to take care of him, to always put him and his interests first.
He'd have to placate Marcia somehow. He needed her.
He walked west toward the river until he saw the address that was on the card, sprayed in red spray paint across the crumbling front of a dilapidated warehouse building.
He entered the filthy foyer, its antique mailboxes hanging, unhinged from the wall, its old lead enamel paint peeling in large, sturdy slices, peppering the floor with spots of green.
Mike thought he heard sounds from the back of the first floor and he approached the double metal loading doors that separated that room from the hall.
The doors opened overhead and Mike dropped to his knees to peer beneath, through a small crack.
All he could see was feet-some of them bare.
"Action!"
Mike heard the director's voice. They must be shooting a movie inside. He pushed the door up very slowly, quietly, until it was wide enough for him to slip in underneath.
The room was dark except for an area, the setting for the movie, lighted in bright white lights. Mike stood by the big door and watched silently.
Two women and a man were entangled in the center spotlight.
The women wore black lace garter belts and red mesh hose. Their feet were encase in four inch spike heeled shoes and their breasts, exposed, were held up by a half bra which revealed their erect nipples. Mike gasped, shocked.
The blonde woman knelt between the legs of the naked man, who lay prone on the floor and took his cock between her hands, rolling it to erection, as she licked the tip end of his penis in quick flicks of her tongue.
The brunette squatted above the naked man's head, exposing the wide, pink expanse of her cunt to his tongue. He moved his extended tongue in circles around her clitoris.
Mike thought, my god, everything is exposed for the camera.
The blonde then squatted over the naked man's stiff prick and lowered her body onto it, impaling her pussy on his spike, moving up and down in slow motions, each time nearly coming off the cock, so the viewer could see the red and throbbing shaft going in and out with every stroke.
The director, in shadow, lifted his hand and brought it down again, signaling a second man to enter the action.
The second man, without a second's hesitation, drove his large, stiff prick into the fucking girl's asshole. A cock in front and one in back, both moving in and out in coordinated strokes. The man held her tits, one in each hand, as though they were the reins on a race horse.
A third man entered from the other side and drove his erect rod into the cunt-hole of the girl who was getting sucked. In and out, he fucked in the same slow rhythm.
Coordinated, like a corps of ballet dancers, the rhythm steadily increased until they all were fucking frantically, in and out, in and out, all together. A low moan began, like a medieval chant, from their throats and rose to a crescendo at the same moment that the five shook simultaneously and climaxed.
"Cut," the shadowy director called, "that's a take."
Mike was surprised to see, when the men pulled their cocks out of the women, they were still hard.
Obviously, they had only pretended to shoot off.
"Sweetheart," the one who had been assfucking said, as he came off the set, "do something with this thing."
A middle-aged Woman came forward and took his cock in hand.
That's what she does for a living-she sucks cocks off. I wonder, he thought, if she gets paid, do they take out taxes on her, social security, unemployment? "And what do you do? "they might ask her in the Unemployment Office. "I suck cocks," she'd answer simply.