Chapter 11
I found myself in a highly unusual situation, as usual. I was on a little circular platform in a room whose walls and ceiling were all mirrors, except on one side near the door. I was competely naked and
Jack Beauchamp was staring at me as if he'd never seen a blofide bushed pussy before. He pressed a button and the little platform rotated about a foot, and he made some notes on a clipboard he was carrying. He rotated me around completely, looking at my tits, thighs, ass, all of me, directly and at the mirror images. Finally he completed his note taking and shook his head.
"No, no," he was muttering to himself, "I'm going to have to talk to that slob, Vellick -"
"Why?" I broke in.
Jack Beauchamp fixed me with a cold stare.
"He's not filling my requisitions properly. You look too much like a piece of ass in a real call girl kind of way."
I bounced off the little rotating pedestal at that remark. I decided to be insulted and gave Jack Beauchamp's handsome puss a lady-like little slap. But he got back at me and I let out a yelp and grabbed my naked behind. "Mister Beauchamp!" I said. "That wasn't nice! No kind-hearted man would suddenly pull loose his belt and slap a girl savagely across her sensitive ass like that. Also, it hurt"
"No doubt," said Jack, threading his belt back into his trousers. "But it stopped your slapping me again, didn't it? Now sit down and have a drink, and I'll explain just what I meant."
I sat down, carefully since my rump still stung quite a bit, and accepted the glass he handed me. I sniffed it first, however, and took a very cautious sip.
"Drink it down," snarled Jack. "You think it's doped or something?"
"Well," I said, taking a bigger sip, "I guess not. But these days a girl just can't be sure. There's so much LSD and Spanish Fly around!"
That was the honest truth, seeing as how I got to Jack Beauchamp's studio in the first place. How I got there was, after Victor and I finished fucking it up on the floor of the Chromo Model Agency, I'd naturally assumed he'd be eager for another hump. So even after he'd climbed, kind of weakly, to his feet, I'd continued to lie on the floor. Looking lewd and lascivious, with my sperm-drenched bush and legs apart.
"I see," he'd gasped, "that you expect, uh, more of me. Well, just wait a few moments. I have to, uh, check some papers and, uh, make arrangements for your, uh, transportation to Mr. Beauchamp's studio. Meanwhile have a glass of, uh, light wine"
So, I'd accepted a glass of what I assumed was light wine. It tasted real nice, too. It made me sleepy, though. Real sleeply. So sleepy that I closed my eyes for just a moment.
When I opened them again I was lying on a strange couch in a strange room with my arms spread wide apart and a strange man lying against me. A very strange man. Also a tall man. I knew he was tall because; I had to tilt my head back to look him in the face. It was a handsome face. Kind of lean and intellectual-looking, like Claude Raines only younger and with a dash of Rock Hudson thrown in. He smiled down at me. He had big, green eyes and a real crazy black spade beard.
"What are you doing?" I asked. Though in point of fact, I could figure out exactly what he was doing. He was taking advantage of my naked and upuntil-then unconscious condition. In fact, he was busy ramming his stiff prong in and out of my pussy!
"What am I doing?" he asked. "I'm fucking you, of course. Any objections."
"None at all," I said, closing my eyes and wrapping my arms around his oscillating ass. I opened my eyes again. "Uh, how long have you been busy screwing me?"
"I've just started," he said.
"Good," I said, closing my eyes again, "We can finish together then. Start humping again any time."
And he started right off. Powerfully, muscularly, masterfully. Even with my eyes closed I could tell, intuitively, a lot about him. Like, I could tell right off that his cock wasn't big and thick and bulllike, the way Victor had been. But he didn't need to be. He used his -his prick like a darting sword. A twirling, flashing, whipping, taunting and tormenting sword.
He fucked away then, expertly and completely and satisfyingly, totally -and then proceeded to, well, stir me up in an all but incredible fashion. To churn me into a passionate frenzy, to move back and forth and from side to side and around and around, even as I felt his hard cock twist and slide and gyrate in the soft, eager depths of my cunt.
His ramrod bumped and slid and rotated hard against my wet cunny-walls -and I felt a sort of syncopated churning of my womb.
And then, just when I'd decided that his humping was the greatest ever, the greatest possible -he started doing something else. Lunging and hurting and paining -now gently and teasingly, now wildly and savagely, and then slowly, twistingly, and then rapidly flailingly.
I just didn't know what his pecker was going to do next -and not knowing, I was constantly amazed and continually delighted by what he did do. And unless you've had them done to you, you wouldn't believe all the things he did.
Besides, what he did with his hands, that is. His hands were moving flames, gliding torments. His hands slid over my naked ass-cheeks like multifingered devils. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once -now stroking the quivering flesh of my thighs, now digging like talons into the tender resiliency of my very asshole, now stroking the hemispheres of my breasts, now crushing my boobs ruthlessly.
Up and down and around his hands moved, while all the time he played erotic havoc with the most deliciously sensitive nerves of my pussy.
I knew what he was doing. He was playing with every part of me, was what he was doing -playing my body like some virtuoso might play a violin. Striking a responsive chord here, working me up to a crescendo there -and then playing a wonderful tune on my rectum. He was teasing and torturing me -and making me glad all over, but especially deep inside, that I was all female and completely at the mercy of his raping prick.
I tried to fight him. Tried to throw him off his stride, make him end the rape of my twat before he planned on ending it. I used every trick I knew. I nuzzled his chest with my lips and tongue -he was too tall for me to reach his face. I stroked his anus and scrotum with my fingertips, squeezed him hard in a soft way with my cunny, wrapped my arms tight around his ass to draw him nearer.
But in the end I knew he was winning, that he and his tool alone was setting the pace, deciding just how long the game would last. So I surrendered to him, gave myself gladly to the superior masculine strength of his rigid organ.
My behind simply lay back weak and limp and pulsing with ever greater excitement as he readied me for the finishing strokes. And then they came, in flashing, brutal wonderful, even more quickly streaking bolts of titillating lightning -and my ass arched up off the couch in shuddering responses of joyous come, responded willingly, wantonly to the mighty forward lunges of his stiff dick -and in a mighty release of boiling semen into my vagina, the game ended . . .
After that we talked. Jack put his clothes black velveteen pants and a black velveteen shirt -on first. Me, I didn't bother. I was too hotted-up, for one thing. For another, I always figure a girl looks better without her clothes on.
First off Jack apologized for the way I'd been brought to him. "Because the art form I practice an art form the vulgar refer to as cunt and cock movies -because this art form is frowned upon by the law-enforcement officers of our puritan society, I must naturally guard against certain things. Such as anyone knowing precisely where my studio and dwelling are located. Hence you were drugged, stuffed into a large trunk, and then brought directly to my studio and dwelling. Where I unpacked you and proceeded to, ah, take advantage of you." "And so masterftillyl" I said. "Thank you." "Uh, where am I"'
"Since Long Island covers an enormous area, I can admit that's your general location. This spacious and artistically decorated living room was once a section of a deserted fruit packing warehouse I purchased some years back. The remainder of the warehouse I purchased some years back. The remainder of the warehouse I have converted into a small but efficient movie studio."
"Congratulations," I said. I got up and strolled over to the nearest window. There wasn't any window.
"Golly," I said. "Did you have all your windows bricked up just so I couldn't peek out and tell where I was?"
"In part," said Jack. "But mostly because I deeply detest the natural tyranny of days and nights. Here, inside my studio and dwelling, I can make night or day last as long as I wish. Sordid natural light cannot penetrate these premises. I am," he went on, "currently living on a twenty-two-hour day and a nine-hour night basis. My schedule, however, is subject to change without notice."
"How masterful," I said. I looked up. The ceiling was very high, maybe twenty feet or more off the ground, and smack in the middle was a big yellow globe shaped like the sun.
"In this room," said Jack, "It is always high noon. My bedroom is even more elaborately equipped. I have a domed ceiling, rather like a small planetarium, and at night -my night -I can lie back and watch artificial stars glide across the sky. My stars, gliding across my sky." His big green eyes gleamed suddenly with pride.
At least, I figured at the time they were gleaming with pride. It didn't occur to me then that he might be more crazy than proud.
"That's very interesting," I said. "Now tell me why none of the better men's magazines would buy a picture of me stark naked. Or semi-stark naked."
Jack slouched into a black velvet easy chair, stroked his black beard and nodded. "I shall," he said. "Not merely to satisfy your vulgar and financially oriented curiosity, but because the explanation will help make clear to you the reasons -or some of the reasons -for my success at the originator of the New Wave of stag movies."
He cleared his throat. "When I was a teenage boy," he said, "there were quite a few magazines on the market that specialized in printing pictures .of undressed women. But without exception they were the sort of magazines a young boy felt ashamed to buy -the kind of magazine a prudent teenage boy kept hidden under the mattress. Or even sewed inside the mattress.
"They had titles like Milkman's Gazetteer or Black Undies or Shock! and they were full of pictures of leering, semi-naked or fully naked women. Low, common, tramp-like women -brassy brunettes and brazen blondes, leering and winking at the camera as they snapped their black garter-belts. Interesting, particularly to parentally inhibited teenage boys -but not especially, well, satisfying.
I held up my hand.
"Yes," said Jack. "A question?"
"Yes, sir. This may sound silly, but why do men and boys -enjoy looking at pictures of naked girls?"
"Men like to look at pictures of nude pussy partly because they just do, but mostly to provide themselves with the stuff of dreams. Daydreams."
"Huh?" I said.
"Men," Jack continued, "daydream much more than women do. And vastly more than most women suspect. Women are practical, logical creatures whereas men, all men, are essentially impractical dreamers. For example, would you climb a' high, dangerous mountain simply because it was there?"
"Of course not," I said. "I'd have to have a much more sensible reason. Like money or something."
"You've proved my point. Men are dreamers and day dreamers. They daydream about being the Fastest Gun in the West, about fighting naval battles and piloting rocket ships through space. Above all, they daydream about love, or to put it more bluntly -fucking and getting fucked."
"Really?"
"Absolutely. Being a female, you wouldn't believe how quickly and easily a man can slide into a hump daydream. A henpecked husband opens a copy of The World's Atlas and suddenly finds himself gazing at a color photograph of a semi-naked Tahitian maiden lying on a beach. In a fraction of a second his eyes glaze. In a fraction of a second he is no longer a henpecked husband huddled in a chair while his wife lectures him from the kitchen." "He isn't."
"No. He is ten thousand miles away, sprawled on the beach beside the naked-assed girl. He feels the sun warm on. his bare shoulders, hears the gentle whisper of the surf a few yards away, he smells the tropic perfume of the garland of flowers that is the native girl's only costume. She turns and smiles at him, a smile full of hero-worship and prick longing. He bends and kisses her, mashing to tropical ripeness of her luscious lips."
"Golly," I said.
Jack didn't hear me. His eyes were glazed. Obviously he was on that beach right then, as well as the native girl and the henpecked husband.
"His hand," went on Jack, "slides lazily up the satiny, sun-warmed curve of her buttock. She moans with pleasure. His hand slides higher, stroking the downy lush of her crotch imprisoning the saucy, uptilted cone of her youthfully full and firm breasts. He sequeezes it, gently but masterfully. Again she moans in unashamed, pagan pleasure -and he feels the pulsing hardness of her breast stab into the palm of his hand as the pink nipple thrusts erect with passion-swollen desire."
"Hot darrml" I said, feeling my own breasts stir with inner excitement
"The native girl's lips thrust eagerly against his mouth, her hands caress the sun-warmed flesh of his ass. He squeezes the tit he holds even harder. That breast is fully erect, hard and throbbing now.
And that knocker isn't all that is now hard, erect nd throbbing -no, her other breast is also hard, erect and throbbing. He bends his head and kisses it, savoring the palm-wine sweetness of her youthful tropically ripe nipples.
"Take me, white man," she cries -and he plunges his stiff shaft into her tropical twat. Cock and cunny meet and merge, flesh slides over flesh . . middle to middle and breast to chest they surge and lunge in tropic abandon . . . waves break over them unnoticed . . . the sun set and the moon rises, unnoticed . . . nothing matters save the ever-building fire in their flesh -a fire which explodes finally like a volcano of desire . . , and their come flows like hot lava.
"They rest long moments in each other's arms. Then the native girl stifles a sob as he starts to gently disengage his dong from her sweet nook. 'Must you go?' she repeats, the tears running freely down her cheeks."
" 'Yes,' he whispers, 'I must -my wife is yelling at me from the kitchen.' And he goes. A fraction of a second later he's back sitting huddled in his chair, saying, 'Yes dear, I'm coming'." "Gee," I said, "how sad."
"Perhaps. But in a way, not so sad. In the space of a few seconds, without his wife having suspected a thing -except that he's getting hard of hearing he's had a torrid, wonderful hump with a Polynesian maiden. An imaginary affair, of course but an imaginary hump is better than none at all."
"Well ..." I said thoughtfully.
"Of course it is," snapped Jack. "Also, such daydreams are just about essential to male mental health in this day and age. Things being as they are, the average man is lucky if he actually fucks a few hundred or even a few dozen girls in his lifetime. In the flesh, that is.
"Thanks to the masculine ability to daydream, however, there's hardly a male over the age of sixteen who hasn't rammed his dick into thousands of incredibly lusty wenches -in his thoughts. And pussy pictures -the right kind of pussy pictures are ideal in initiating a pleasant, erotic daydream."
I said, "Couldn't a man just imagine himself shoving it up an imaginary girl?"
"Of course. But it is much more satisfying, more real to daydream a hump while looking at a real photograph of a real naked girl. And that's where the old-style magazines for men missed the boat. The leering, winking overly made-up, garter-beltsnapping girls they featured looked like the kind of girls you'd expect to find in a whorehouse. A fifthrate cathouse. One could imagine oneself fucking things up with one of them easily enough -but it was the kind of daydream that left you feeling vaguely, well, vaguely like you'd just visited a fifthrate cunt-stable. A little ashamed and slightly guilty."
"How silly," I said.
"Silly or not, I speak the truth. At any rate, the New Wave of men's magazines which began just after the war changed all this -and for the better. Instead of pictures of beat-up, slightly sagging, tramplike strippers -they began running photographs of young, wholesome, fresh-faced nooky. They looked, in short, like the Girl Next Door, demure and sexy at the same time."
"Also naked," I added.
"Precisely. However, old-style cheese cake pictures also showed naked ass. The difference was, with the old-style cheesecake pictures you always felt as if you were peering through a keyhole. With the new style, it's as if you'd accidentally opened the door while the Girl Next Door was taking a shower."
He got up, rummaged in a desk, came back with a large colored photograph which he held up. It was of a young girl in a shower.
"This gatefold, removed from one of the better men's magazines, illustrates my point exactly. See how clean, young and wholesome she looks. Also how well-stacked. Nothing sagging about her titties; she's a springy-assed eighteen. A girl any man would love to bounce on a bed."
"But she's no pushover, no tramp. You can tell by the demure way she's dropped her left hand to serve in lieu of a fig-leaf over her bush -a gesture which not only shows her basic modesty but allows the magazine to be sent through the mails. But, while this girl is pure through, and through, it's obvious that you can score."
"I can?"
Jack nodded. "It's obvious. You've just walked in on her while she's taking a shower. Her look of startled yet pleased surprise shows that. She's pretending to be shocked by your action -yet her eyes twinkle with discreet approval of your boldness. She's using one hand to cover the focal point of her pussy, and her other arm is raised as if to shield her plump, juicy-looking knockers from your view -but her arm hasn't been raised nearly high enough. Quite obviously, while pretending to cover her breasts, she's actually anxious for you to fondle them with your eyes -to see just how big and high and firm and rounded and squeezable and kissable they are."
"Is that what she's doing?" I asked.
"Of course. All this is obvious from her stance, her startled coy, yet shyly inviting expression. One glance at this photograph and the average red-blooded young man gets a rousing hard-on and goes in stantly into delightful hump -" "He can?"
"Of course. The entire realistic seeming situation is implied by this carefully posed photograph." His eyes glazed. "You're on a date, see? You call at the House Next Dopr. The Girl is there -alone. She's all apologies. She didn't realize it was so late. She's not quite ready yet --do you mind waiting while she takes a quick shower?"
"You tell her no and she smiles and walks swiftly from the living room. You begin to get ideas
-and the blood starts to pound in your head. Always before this girl has been unapproachable, demure, modest. Yet there was something about the way she blushed when she greeted you, glanced over her shoulder at you when she left the room -the blood pounds stronger in your pecker-head.
"You take a stride across the room. She's left the door to her bedroom wide open. Ditto the door to the bathroom. You walk, slowly, through her bedroom, your stiff dong pounding in your shorts. Dare you? The sound of the running shower stops. Yes!"
"Wow!" I said, just to be polite.
Jack ignored me. "You walk boldly into her bathroom, your mouth dry with excitement, your prick a souped-up ramrod. Will she scream? Yell for you to leave? No. One glance at her face and you know she wanted you to walk in on her like this
-gloriously nude. And you know, deep down, that she knows you know -and you know she knows you know she knows you know."
"These daydreams sure get complicated," I said. Jack didn't even hear me. "'Jack,' she gasps, pretending surprise. 'You're being very naughty' You don't bother to answer. You just take two bold steps forward and reach for her, sliding your hands around the sleek, dripping column of her waist. She pretends to push you away -but not for long. Already the lush spheres of her breasts are being crushed against your chest, already the warmth of her flesh is pressed maddeningly close to your very being. You kiss her wet lips. She pretends to struggle and then all at once she goes limp. She's surrendered .. . she's yours. And then your dick slides in up to your balls . . .
His voice trailed off while his eyes got more and more glazed. The picture fell unnoticed from his fingers and he began to breathe heavily.
I stood politely saying nothing while he breathed heavily for about fifteen seconds. He sure was a pushover for his own hump daydreams.
Then his eyes unglazed and his breathing slowed to normal. He looked at me and blinked. "Where was I?"
"Shoving your dick up a girl in a shower," I said, "I hope you didn't get wet."
"So now you can begin to see," Jack said, "that your type of figure just doesn't fit our needs."
"But what's wrong?" I almost wailed. Suddenly all that nice easy picture money I counted on was going down the drain. "My combo of tits, ass and pussy drives men wild!" I continued. "Even you liked the sample you had, Jack!"
I leaned against him making like a helpless female, being careful to let the nipples of my naked breasts brush his arm. I leaned a little harder, letting the lush, yielding beauty of my right titty make an interesting impression. Then I decided to give Jack another view of my well rounded ass. I was still naked, so I crossed the room to get my skirt.
I could feel Jack's eyes on my swaying behind, taking in the generous rippling curves I was literally tossing his way. I'm sure he must have had second thoughts about my appeal as he appraised the love ly flare of my buttocks and their tantalizing, jiggling cheeks. I was trying so hard that the cute dimples I have on each side of my asshole probably winked at him.
"Let's go into my private projection room," Jack said. "I'll run off a few samples of my work for you."
Maybe the tide was turning in my favor. I put on only my skirt and left myself topless to be in the proper mood.