Chapter 5

Rod made an attempt to "go straight" the following week. He'd gotten a call to be an extra on a T.V. cigarette commercial that had a western locale. The production unit had taken over a dude ranch in upper Westchester for the filming and Rod welcomed the chance to don cowboy attire, ride a horse and do some "acting." Maybe it would be the beginning of something better for him in a legitimate way. It was a matter of furthering his acting career, at least making some move, small though it was, in a redemptive direction. And an "extra's" slot, minor though it was, was at least one faltering step away from the house in Riverdale.

Or so he thought. For on Thursday, as the "location" shots were finished, the cameras put away for another day, and his services were no longer needed, he realized that all he'd got out of the venture, besides the piddling "extra's" minimum, was a burn, a horse odor, and aching asscheeks. He had in no appreciable way furthered his career. No director had even give him a second look, much less run up to him with excited howls and "discovered" him.

He couldn't help but wonder what the point was. Here he'd spent a rugged, monotonous three days astride a cantankerous, balky horse, he'd raced up countless draws and rises, he'd skinned his legs in the ambush sequence, for what? Seventy dollars a day? He could more than equal his three days' movie earnings with one night's "application" at Olga's. It was easier than a smelly horse.

He tried to tell himself that this wasn't proper reasoning at all. But somehow all his temporizations fell flat on their faces. Facts were facts. And money is money. He'd hold out for a part breaking in Manny Willman's independent pilot production. But the "extra" bit. Never again.

In the meantime. While he waited?

There was always Riverdale.

Which was where, on that slow Thursday afternoon, tired of sitting in his apartment and thinking his depressing thoughts, Rod Bradley finally betook himself. Not so much, he told himself, in hope of turning a trick, as in desire for company. Ken had told him there was always someone "standing by" around the house. There was always a poker game going. There was always some interesting conversation.

Besides, Rod had a lame alibi, there was the matter of his fee for last Friday night's caper. And he'd best check in.

There was no sweat about the fee. For as he entered his room the plain white envelope on his dresser was one of the first things he saw. He smiled thinly as he saw the five G-notes there. Added to the hundred Rita Vanoff slipped to each of us as we left that night-Hell, you cant beat success.

He felt sudden pangs of disgust as the reminder of the orgy at the Westchester mansion, tried to blot out the thoughts. Was the money, attractive though it was, worth that self-vilification? Would money ever really recompense for a sell-out like that?

Now that it was the first time he'd thought about that night. There'd been plenty of time out in the lulls as they'd waited between takes, as they'd rode the bus back and forth between the city and the ranch. Times when he's been unable to fight his thoughts into submission, and the events of the entire debacle had paraded in leering, mocking file before his eyes all over again.

Needless to say, Rod had been glad when the riding and shooting had taken up again.

Especially needling had been the remembrance of Jean Schuyler. It seemed he couldn't quite relate the naivete of her expression and character to the fuck-goings on at Rita Vanoff s. The ringing, hissing vehemence with which she'd been determined to see the vile round robin of cocks through still boomed and echoed in his mind. How in hell could a kid like that lend herself to the sick games played in that sin-trap of Friday night?

Even more disconcerting: What reeking, foul secret lurked in her background? What humiliation had led her to embrace the debauch so greedily? If she was truly married as she claimed, what cruel affront had her husband inflicted to drive her to this?

Insofar as was possible Rod fought to still the disquieting thought, concluding that it didn't really matter what Jean Schuyler's reasons for being screwed by ten men were. Unless she was at Rita's, when and if he was summoned there once more, his and Jean's paths would never cross again anyway.

And why the big sorry over an empty-headed baby like Jean in the first place? I've got problems enough of my own. Let her stew in her own juice, no matter what private hell it steamed and bubbled from.

But the saying was much easier than the doing. And sitting in his quiet, sumptuous quarters, he found a vision of the exquisite, bewildered-eyed girl swimming faster and faster in his brain. Until he knew he had to get out of the room, find some distraction.

But he was wrong again. For he did not have to leave his room; distraction came to him. From the corner of his eye he saw the red lights on the control panel flash, signal that someone was at large in the halls. Moments later he heard his buzzer snarl.

He opened the door to find Olga Innstrom standing before him, a sarcastic smile on her lips. "Well, welcome back," she smirked. "Where you been?"

She was dressed in a slack outfit again, her daytime trademark apparently; an outfit of silver lame this time, an ensemble that had seemingly been sprayed on. And then deliberately shrunk two sizes after that. There wasn't a muscle or curve of her body that wasn't proudly and boldly displayed. The woman had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.

Rod was immediately on guard. "I've been around."

"Have you?" she cut him down with a glance. "That's a lie and you know it. If you'd have been around, you'd know I tried to get in touch with you all day Tuesday. A real urgent call came up." Coldly she looked over his reddened face. "Looks like you been out with a fresh air cultist."

He decided on the truth. "I was out of town. On location. I got a little part in a TV commercial. We were shooting some exteriors up on a dude ranch."

"How little?"

"Just little."

"What you mean is that you were an extra. Right?"

Her voice was cutting. "Now listen to me, wise guy. You want to be a big T.V. star you go ahead. That's your affair. You can play all the kid games you want. But get one thing straight. You check in before you take off, see if there's anything on the fire. Then, and only then, when you get the all clear, you can go off and make like a star. I have to know where you are. I can't afford to turn down clients like Vivian Gabriel more than once."

Rod jerked. "Vivian Gabriel?"

"Yes, Vivian Gabriel. I don't know what you did to her, but she's really got it where you're concerned. I tried palming off someone else on her, but she wouldn't hear of it. It had to be Rod. I even volunteered Vince Fletcher or Doug Lyman, but she didn't want one of that either. Shell be in to see you next week. Unless she goes to Los Angeles with her husband. Then the week after."

Rod was adequately contrite. "I'm sorry, Olga. I just got a wild impulse. That thing on Friday at Rita's kind of got me down. And when they called me from the casting office, I..."

"Skip it," she squelched him. "It's done with now. But next time..." Her voice softened, her eyes sparkled mischievously. "Rough at Rita's huh?"

"I thought so. Maybe the other guys..."

"You'll get used to it. Don't let it bug you. The others complained too. That dame gets one of the nuttiest ideas. She's a tramp." Olga laughed. "But a well paying one. We can afford to humor her, can't we?"

Rod grinned wryly. "Yeah, I guess we can."

Olga's eyes dilated suddenly, she stared at Rod with a too intense look, a touch of yearning in her assessment. Then she winced. "Anyway, be here tonight. Nothing definite, but it'll be busy. I'll find something for you to do. Or somebody to screw."

She paused at the door, looked back. "One more thing. You've got an ironclad appointment for tomorrow afternoon at three. Be on time." And giving him no time to answer, Olga let herself swaggeringly out the door. The poker game was in Doug Lyman's room. It was Rod's first meeting with Doug-another specialist, Ken had once insinuated-but he knew all the others gathered around the table. Bob Merritt, Vince Fletcher, and of course, the omnipresent cynic, Ken Holman. All of them made a loud show of welcoming the patsy, all of them already feeling their drinks. Which was to the good, for if there was anything Rod couldn't stand this afternoon, it was a grim, moody session. He was here for laughs; the gloom stuff he had enough of on his own.

It was a sociable, low stakes game, and before the hour was up Rod had parlayed himself a nice pile of chips. Not to mention a glow that was creeping up on him.

"Hey," Bob joshed, "I thought we were getting a patsy here. Looks like we're the ones who were suckered in. Don't you ever drop a hand?"

"Only when I don't have the cards," Rod laughed.

"How's it doing, pal?" Vince Fletcher asked.

"What d'ya mean, how's it going? I' wining, ain't I?"

"I mean fucking the broads. How do you like the set up? You getting used to being one of the joy boys? You acted fed up the other night."

"You didn't sound so chipper either," Ken interjected. "Not as I recall it. You got one real workout that night."

Fletcher was very forthright about his predilections. "Hell, that Carter witch couldn't get enough prick." He turned on Rod again. "Well?"

"It's a living," Rod snapped. "I don't have to like it, do I?"

"God," Bob retorted. "You're getting paid for something that most guys would give their right arms to fall into."

"Fall into is right. It all depends on your outlook. Mine just happens to be a cut above the cunt philosophy most of you have settled for."

"An idealist," Doug Lyman chuckled. "Give him time, you guys. He's like the rest of us. We all thought this was a stopgap when we started here. Now look at us. Hell learn in time. Hell, it's only his second week."

"Deal," Ken snapped. "Cards, remember?"

"Yeah," Bob said. "Deal 'em."

But there was talk on the side. Very interesting and disconcerting talk. Talk which led Rod to believe that his education in Olga's sin den had only begun. He had lots to learn.

The conversation veered into an unavoidable track of women fucking. And the record went round and round. Came out girls, girls, girls. Rod Bradley learning plenty about what went on in those rooms in the house.

"Those suffering nuts," Bob was saying, "they're the ones that turn my stomach. Mix in a little fetish stuff, and you really got a mess." He went on to tell of an experience where the woman had lain on the bed, insisted he whip her bloody with a hardware-studded belt she brought along, had achieved a hurricane of a come from the act. Afterward, she'd brought out a tin box of half smoked cigarettes, obviously her husband's, had insisted he light up, and burn ugly souvenirs into her body as an encore.

It was like telling off-color jokes. One story recalled another, and soon each of the old hands at the house had an interesting account to relate.

"Remember that six day deal up in New Rochelle?" Vince reminded. "That big advertising and T.V. brawl?"

"Remember?" Ken said. "I ache every time I do."

"Well, let me tell Junior here about it."

It was a party that had taken place just after Christmas last year. A Christmas party to end all Christmas parties. A nonstop orgy during which the dozen guys and dozen gals had drunk everything but bowl cleaner, had fucked each other out in every way their drink-addled minds could evolve. Until finally, during the second day, the men had given out. Either that, or-much to the impassioned, insatiable women's frustration-had turned to still another improvisation-he'n and he'n. It was then that one of the women had remembered Olga, had given her a buzz, sent for reinforcements.

Six men had gone out, hadn't returned for four days, and then, more dead than alive. The reports they brought back were hair-raising. They'd been greeted with gratitude by the burned out males, with delirious joy by the panting prick-hungry dolls. The things that had transpired as the party had dragged to a heat-henish close, were indescribable, the women still avid for more cock, the men totally beat. Olga's tab of $2,000 had been met without a protest.

"And that's not mentioning the extras we got." Merritt, who'd also been there, added. "Them dolls were stripping off jewelry, pulling out hoarded greenbacks right and left. If only we'd fuck 'em this way and that."

"I didn't get out of bed for a week after," Ken laughed.

"That Rita and her rape bit," Ken reminisced now, "reminds me of that night Ottavia Rossi came in here, hired every stud in the house. She dug it suffering too."

Ottavia Rossi, a famous concert coloratura, had indeed had a quirk. For under explicit instructions relayed by Olga, she wanted to be fucked nonstop. Just as soon as one man finished, another was to cruelly rape her. She gave herself a three hour deadline, paid lavishly. With still another provision: That being that no matter how much she screamed and protested that she'd had enough, she was still to be screwed and screwed. According to Kenneth, she was out of her head by the end of the second hour. But still, heeding her strict orders, the men kept lining up outside her door to take their turns at fucking her.

And yet, come morning, after a few hours rest, the woman had walked out of the house under her own power composed and completely lucid.

"That was when Ricky Gennaro was still here," Vince said.

"What ever happened to him?" Merritt said. "If there was ever a prick, Rich was it. You just couldn't wear him out. I once saw him go eight straight fucks with one dame. She was yelling uncle, too, believe me."

"I don't know," Kenneth said. "He just disappeared after fucking fifteen women one after the other and the women still were crying for more cock. Maybe he took a deep six. He was acting kind of squirrelly at the end there."

"Maybe," Lyman said, "he found himself a doll on his own. Maybe she's keeping him some place."

"Not Rich," Ken scoffed. "He dug variety of cunt. He'd be the last to tie himself down to one broad mare. No, that wasn't it. There was some bad feeling with Olga if you remember."

"Hell," Vince spat, "that's just some of her propaganda. She'd like to have us believe he crossed her once too often and she erased him. She don't scare me."

Ken sent him a mocking sneer. "Oh, no? How come you run like you got electric shoes every time she calls you down for a visit?"

"Rats," Vincie said. And abruptly dropped the subject.

Whereupon Doug Lyman filled the gap. Told a story that partially revealed what variations he specialized in. For a good price, of course. As he related an account of a sadistic interlude with one of the city's most prominent society figures. During which she'd flailed him with a black leather whip she brought in her own handbag.

After which, only partially satisfied, she'd forced him to lie on the floor, had walked on his hands, his arms and legs wearing her spike-heeled shoes. And finally, bracing herself on the chair, had stood on his chest had achieved a terrifying orgasm as she hovered over him, the come running down her legs, calling her husband's name again and again.

Then, at the end, in a stunning act of contrition, had flung herself upon his naked body, had loved and kissed it, had sucked his prick and balls sobbing hysterically all the while.

The card session lasted perhaps an hour more, each hand taking more and more time to play. As the flow of stories went on and on. Until at the end, finding it increasingly hard to concentrate. Rod Bradley found that he was down twenty-five dollars.

But then, he mused, education-education of any conceivable kind-never does come cheap.

Olga had Rod booked for two fuck events that night. One at ten, the other at eleven-thirty. They were with gaunt, leather-faced married women who had a yen for pretty, young men; women of no special eminence except that of their husband's bank accounts. Who, if they were anyone special, weren't bothering to advertise. Women who wanted to be fucked in a good ramming session, if brash manner, who craved no side attractions. Each fuck was concluded in thirty minutes flat.

"I just stopped in for a pick-me-up after League meeting," Rod could imagine them telling their husbands upon returning home.

And thus, as he waited for his balls to refill, having no special yearning for more clients that night, but remaining on hand in case a desperate transient should ankle in, there was time to kill.

Part of which time, with Kenny was spent spying on the "preview room." Watching Ed Johnson and frenzied brunette work up to screwing in a very primitive manner. The woman, a lush-bodied amazon who stood at least six feet in her socks, had obviously picked Ed for one reason. He had a huge prick.

She'd been with Ed before, that much was clear. For he seemed to know his role perfectly, every move and submission meticulously ritualized. He stood before the woman in dumb passivity, let her have her way with him. He let her undress him, let her circle and admire him when he was nude, let her touch and caress his cock and balls.

Then charged with impatience, she began to rip off her own clothes. Until she got down to her brassiere and panties. These she let Ed remove. It provided quite a contrast to see his black hands going over that white body, gentry sliding off the white silk bra and panties.

It was a dumbshow that was driving the woman in the viewing stand almost out of her head. She was twisting and shaking uncontrollably, her own hands mauling her fully clothed escort. Who happened to be Doug Lyman. A very cooperative type of fellow. Except when the youngish matron, a brittle, but pretty little blonde, dressed to the teeth in an exotic, strapless gown, sexy shoes, iridescent stockings, got rough. Then he had to take her hands, restrain her.

"Oh, isn't that wonderful!" she seethed. "I wouldn't have missed this for the world. I've heard rumors about this, but I never believed it. I thought it was a folk myth. But it's true, isn't it?"

And suddenly, her passion crowning, unable to help herself, she caught Doug's hands and pushed them at her cunt. So with his index finger he entered her cunthole and proceeded to finger-fuck her. "Now dear. Oh, that feels so good. Ahh..." She came but was still unsatisfied, her expression of desire only partially gone she whipped down the front of her gown, let her ripe, ponderous tits roll out.

"Suck them, baby," she pleaded. "Suck them good. I can't just sit here and watch this and do nothing. Mmmm, mmm... You sweet lover. That's gorgeous. Keep it up, don't stop." The sucking noises Doug made convinced the men that he was giving those nipples the sucking of then-life.

Then her breath suddenly caught in her throat. As she saw the woman with Ed kiss him. As she saw her go limp, begin to slide down his eager body, his prick standing out ready for white cunt. The little housewife's hands twisted in Doug's hair, "No," she whispered, awestruck, "she won't, she wont suck his prick!"

But the brunette would. And she knelt before Ed, she groveled at his feet, kissed his legs, then his knees. Her hands clawed and slipped. And she pulled herself even higher, higher toward the huge cock that was waiting to be sucked.

Doug Lyman's blonde companion wriggled and writhed in sympathy as the brunette proceeded to suck the giant, black dong, a look of supreme ecstasy on her face. As she watched the brunette continue to suck both the huge cock and, now, his balls, the blonde's mouth, began to work convulsively. She kicked at Doug's trousers and frantically unzipped him. Still watching the "show" she fondled Doug's ass, his thighs and finally his prick. As passion gulfed his pole with her mouth, her lips working in a frantic hungry rhythm. A sudden spasm shot through Doug as he shot his load passionately in her mouth the blonde still sucking him with gurgling sounds of delight.

Rod watched with fascination at the sights which were unfolding before him. Finally he turned away as he saw both the black man and Doug sucking the cunts of their "partners" with complete abandon and lust, making them come again and again, and left with Ken Holman.