Chapter 6
Molly was still thinking about her torrid, mind-blowing sex session with the Frenchmen when she arrived in Rome, Italy, ten days later. Truth was, she had only a vague recollection of what had actually transpired in the loft. She could remember bits and pieces of the wild fuck fest, but could not arrange them to form a coherent whole.
She remembered, for instance, meeting Pierre at the charming cafe on the Champs Elysees, and then, after chatting with him a bit, accepting his invitation to visit the studio in Montmartre he shared with his fellow artist, Jacques Novale. She also remembered, more or less, what the loft looked like, and how she had had to suppress a laugh when viewing Jacques' latest piece of sculpture.
But after that, it all became cloudy in her mind. All she knew for sure, was that she had been stripped, placed on the bed, and then fucked, fucked until she passed out from exhaustion. Who had done what to her, and how long she was kept on the bed remained a mystery to her.
And she didn't think she would ever know for sure just how she got back to her hotel room. The only explanation that made any sense, was that either Jacques or Pierre or both, had dressed her, dragged her downstairs, and out onto the street, and then deposited her inside a cab.
It had to have happened like that, Molly concluded. All she could remember was passing out and then waking up in her own hotel room, with a splitting headache, and a swollen mouth, and a vagina that felt shredded.
Molly's decision to visit Italy stemmed in part from her interest in ancient Roman civilization. So it was that soon after arriving in Rome, and checking into one of the smaller hotels in the heart of the city, she rented an automobile, purchased a camera, and went sightseeing.
She visited and photographed the Temple of Apollo at Pompeii, the Forum Romanum, the Temple of Neptune at Paestum, The Leaning Tower at Pisa, and a dozen or so equally interesting treasures of antiquity. All of this, of course, took a few days and quite a bit of driving, with the result that when Molly returned to Rome, she was ready to relax, and do what sightseeing she could on foot.
She chose a bright sunny day for her stroll down one of Rome's most fashionable avenues. She had no way of knowing when she left her hotel, that she would soon have an experience and a highly sexual one, to rival the one she had had with Pierre and Jacques in France.
It all started when she felt the tap on her right shoulder. She had been looking through a shop window, admiring an expensive but truly eye-catching black satin evening gown, and at the feel of the tapping hand, she turned around, expecting the tap to be followed immediately by a goose. The Italians, she had discovered, were great bottom pinchers.
"Excuse me, my dear, but I would like very much to chat with you for a minute," smiled the stranger.
"Me?" said Molly, puzzled. He looked harmless enough, she thought, giving the rotund Italian a quick once over. In fact, he looked almost comical. With that big round face, and big round belly, dressed in a suit the color of vanilla, he resembled nothing so much as a snowman out of season. Bright blue eyes twinkled from beneath dark, bushy brows, and in contrast, a mop of unruly whiter than white hair sat atop his large head.
"Yes, you," said the man, still smiling. "Let me introduce myself. My name is Salvatore Donnelli. Perhaps you have heard of me."
Molly smiled softly and shook her head. "Sorry."
"No?" said the man, a frown quickly replacing the grin he had been wearing.
"Should I know you?" asked Molly, who had dressed for her stroll in a smart blue and white checkered pants suit, which she had purchased in Paris. Slung over her left shoulder was her brown leather bag, into which she had tucked a few hundred dollars worth of traveler's checks.
"I am Salvatore Donnelli, one of the world's greatest motion picture directors," the big-bellied Italian explained with pride, the smile returning to his pinkish, moon-shaped face. "I have won three Oscars."
"I'm afraid I don't see too many foreign films, Mr. Donnelli," said Molly.
"But surely you saw 'In Sickness and In Health,' my finest work. It had to do with a man and woman whose marriage was, how you say, on the rocks."
Molly shook her head and smiled apologetically.
"Agh, you Americans like nothing but westerns," complained the film director, frowning again. "Horses and cowboys, bah!"
"I thought there was such a thing as a spaghetti Western, Mr. Donnelli."
"Do not mention that ugly term in my presence, dear lady. Spaghetti Westerns, as you call them, are made in this country by greedy men who value only the lira. I am an artist. I make only films that breathe with life, real fife."
Molly nodded her head and smiled again. He was really kind of cute, she thought, this roly-poly fellow with the ego the size of his belly. Still, she wondered what he wanted with her. He hadn't gotten around to explaining the reason he'd interrupted her window-shopping.
"But enough of that," said Donnelli. "You are no doubt wondering why I stopped you."
"I'm sure it wasn't to ask my opinion of Italian films."
"No, but you are very close. May I ask your name before I begin?"
"It's Molly. Molly Lawford."
"Molly. Yes, I like that name. It has a happy ring to it. Still, we may have to change it to something more, how shall I say, er, sensuous sounding."
"Change my name?" grinned Molly. "I have no intention of changing my name."
"We must always think of the marquee, my dear. How a name looks in lights is not an unimportant matter."
Molly shook her head. "I'm afraid you've lost me, Mr. Donnelli. I don't have the faintest idea of what you're talking about."
"Because I am getting ahead of myself. It is a bad habit of mine. Forgive me."
"Only if you'll tell me what this is all about," said Molly, more intrigued than she thought she should be.
Donnelli took Molly's left arm and started leading her toward the curb. "Come, we will walk to my car, It is much more comfortable talking there, than standing here on the street. Besides, there is the noise of the traffic."
Somewhat reluctantly, Molly let herself be steered to a shiny black limousine parked at the curb. A young, ruggedly handsome Italian, dressed in a chauffeur's uniform suddenly materialized to open the door for her.
Hoping she wasn't doing the wrong thing, she crawled into the limousine, and then slid across the seat to the far side. The rotund film director worked his bulk into the auto and plopped down next to her.
"You may take a short break, Giovanni," said Donnelli to his chauffeur, after the latter had slammed the back door shut. "Be back in thirty minutes."
Giovanni flashed a smile at Molly and then, jamming his hands into his trouser pockets, sauntered down the street.
"So, now we can talk, Molly," smiled Donnelli, turning his attention to the raven-tressed beauty beside him. "Tell me, have you ever worked in films?"
"In films? As an actress, you mean?"
"I mean exactly that."
"No, never. I have enough trouble memorizing phone numbers. I could never memorize a script."
"That is nothing," said Donnelli, dismissing the excuse with a flip of his right hand. "We film in bits and pieces. A little footage today, a little more tomorrow. The actors learn the script a part at a time. It is easy."
"Well, that may be, but I-"
"You have a presence, Molly. A certain charisma. I recognized it the minute I set eyes on you. That's why I had Giovanni stop the car."
"I'm still not sure what you're getting at, Mr. Donnelli." .
"Just this, Molly. I think we could make you a star with very little trouble. You are what we in the business refer to as a natural."
"You're really serious, aren't you?" grinned Molly. "You honestly think I could make it as an actress."
"There is no doubt in my mind."
"But I never took an acting lesson. I don't have a drop of talent."
"Acting lessons are useless, my dear. One cannot be taught how to emote. It must come from within." Donnelli pounded his chest a few times. "From here, Molly. From the heart."
Molly shook her head. "I don't believe this. It's crazy."
"Not so crazy, Molly. There is a part for you in my next picture. Not a very big part, to be sure. But it will give you the exposure you need. After that, well, we will guide you gently up the ladder of success."
"I couldn't be in your picture, Mr. Donnelli. Why I'd ruin everything. It would be a disaster."
"Nonsense. It is not for nothing that I have won three Oscars. I am a great director, Molly. I know how to work with actors. I will work with you and make you a star."
"No, it wouldn't work," insisted Molly, smiling.
"Haven't you ever wanted to be a movie star? When you were a child, maybe?"
Well, he was right there, thought Molly. There was a time, long, long ago, when she dreamed of running away to Hollywood, and becoming an overnight success. Acting in the movies, was, it seemed at the time, such a fantastically exciting life, with all the beautiful clothes you got to wear, all the attention lavished on you, and, of course, all the money you got to spend.
But every girl growing up fantasizes sometime or other about being a famous movie star. It was something you outgrew. She certainly had, and to even consider starting an acting career now, when she was thirty-five and totally lacking in experience, would be sheer folly, absolutely ludicrous.
"You are thinking over my invitation to become a star," Donnelli smiled. "And you are about to accept."
"Sorry, Mr. Donnelli, but I am not interested. I'm flattered you think I could succeed, I really am, but I have no great desire to work in the film industry."
"Is that your final answer? I cannot change your mind?"
Molly smiled and shook her head.
The director sighed, and slumped back in the seat. "You make a mistake, Molly. A big mistake. Salvatore Donnelli does not make a habit of stopping women on the street and asking them if they would like to appear in one of his films. I select only those whom I know have the potential to succeed. You disappoint me, Molly."
"I'm sorry. Maybe you'll find somebody else to make a big star."
Donnelli thought for a moment. Then, his fat face brightened as he said, "There is one way you can make me happy."
"Oh?"
"Yes. You must accept my invitation to a little party I am hosting tonight at my villa. It is to celebrate the release next week of my last film. Please say you will come, Molly. It would make me very happy."
"Well, I don't know-"
"You have no plans for this evening, do you?"
"No, but-"
"Then it is settled. I will have Giovanni pick you up at eight and drive you to my villa. Now, let me get out a pencil and some paper and you can give me your address."
Well, why not, thought Molly, smiling as she watched the rotund film director fumble in his pockets for pencil and paper. It might be fun. She had never been inside a villa before, and there was bound to be good food and drink at the party. And who knows? She might bump into a famous film star. It sounded incredible. Fantastic!
That was the word that best described the scene, thought Molly, surveying her surroundings. If this is what Donnelli termed a little party, she couldn't imagine what one of his really big bashes was like since there had to be at least fifty people at this shindig, all of whom appeared to be having a helluva good time.
The villa itself was magnificent, all fourteen rooms of it. Donnelli's guided tour, which he had given her shortly after her arrival, had all but taken her breath away. Never in her life had she seen such a display of wealth. It was all around her; upstairs, downstairs, even in the kitchen, which had been modeled after the one in his favorite French restaurants.
But this, this was really something special, thought Molly, glancing around the immense, square-shaped room in which, Donnelli explained, he liked to do his entertaining. It was a ball room, with a ceiling higher than high, and hanging from the center of that ceiling was a magnificent chandelier, glittering like a gold-encrusted crown.
The ceiling was a cream color, as were the walls, upon which had been hung paintings large and small. Statues, some of them obscene, were all over the room, and in one corner there was even a fountain shooting water. On the floor was a wall-to-wall carpet the color of Rose wine.
A dozen or so chairs, all black, had been strategically placed about the room. Running parallel to one wall was a bar, behind which a tall, distinguished-looking black dispensed drinks to the guests. Across the way, against the other wall, stood a long table bedecked with an attractive and appetizing array of warm and cold food.
Yes, sir, though Molly, Donnelli was certainly leading the good life. Maybe his idea about making her a movie star wasn't so crazy after all.
"Hey, there, why aren't you mingling with the guests?" came a voice from behind Molly.
The raven-tressed beauty, who was wearing the black satin evening gown she had been looking at this afternoon, when Donnelli came by, turned at the sound of the voice. It was Giovanni, the director's tall, lean, ruggedly-handsome chauffeur. She gave him a smile as he approached.
"And look, your glass is almost empty," said Giovanni. "I don't think you are enjoying yourself at all."
"Oh, but I am," Molly assured the chauffeur. "I was just taking a minute to recuperate, that's all."
"Recuperate? From what?"
"From meeting all the other guests. Donnelli introduced me to all of them."
Giovanni smiled broadly. "Yes, it is a lively crowd tonight. And before long, they will be even livelier."
"Oh?"
"Absolutely. Just you wait and see, Molly Lawford."
"See what, Giovanni. What are you talking about?"
The chauffeur chuckled. "You have never been to one of Salvatore Donnelli's parties. You are in for a big surprise, I think. A very big surprise."
"I really wish you wouldn't be so damned vague. Tell me what's going to surprise me, Giovanni."
"No, but I will see you later, Molly. I have put you very high on my list."
"List? What list? Giovanni, come back here."
But it was too late. The grinning chauffeur turned and started making his way to the bar, leaving Molly to ponder the surprise he had said was in store for her. She spent a few minutes wondering what it could be, then, with a little shrug, started for the buffet.
An hour and a half later, Molly was surprised.
She was chatting at the bar with one Carlo Mondino, a wealthy young industrialist, and his wife, Maria, when suddenly she heard a commotion behind her. She turned, as did everyone else, to look toward the center of the ball room, where, lo and behold, Salvatore Donnelli was doing some sort of a crazy jig--bare-assed, naked!
Everyone started laughing and clapping their hands. The soft, lush orchestral sounds that had been coming from speakers all around the room were replaced with the hard, driving beat of a Latin band. The guests, most of whom were middle-aged, started whooping it up like children at school recess.
Molly couldn't help but join in the laughter. When clothed, Donnelli was almost a comical figure. When naked, his big belly shaking like a bowl full of jelly, and his mop of white hair flying all around his round head, he was nothing less than outrageously funny.
The real surprise, however, came a minute of so later, when the middle-aged merrymakers started stripping off their expensive clothes. Eyes wide, mouth agape, Molly looked on in disbelief as all around her, people shed their clothes in what seemed a race to get naked first.
And then the guests were pairing off, choosing partners, and scurrying off in search of a comfortable place to couple. Molly didn't need another hint. She realized now that she had been invited to a sex party. An orgy!
"Aha, gotcha!" cried a voice behind Molly. It was Giovanni again, and this time he was stark naked. He pressed up close to the raven-tressed beauty, and snaking his arms around her, wrapped his meaty hands over her luscious breasts before she could even turn to face him.
"Giovanni, why didn't you tell me about this?"
"Because I was afraid you would get upset, and decide to leave the party." The chauffeur squeezed Molly's tits hard, and at the same time pushed forward .his hips, letting her feel the swelling of his manhood against her bottom. "But now you cannot leave. I have caught you and you are mine."
Molly took another look around the huge room. It was a mad, altogether obscene spectacle, as depraved as any she could have imagined.
The room had been transformed into one great arena of lust, with some of the guests already fucking up a storm. Clothes were scattered all over the place. Everybody was naked, and either screwing or preparing to.
It was a turn-on, no doubt about that. Just standing there, looking at all those naked people sucking or fucking was enough to start her cunt crying. Her heart was beating faster now, and her pulse quickened.
Well, why not? Why let the opportunity to participate in an orgy, her very first, slip by? There were, she had already noted, quite a few attractive men at the party. Giovanni was one of them.
"Quick now," said the voice behind Molly. "We must get you undressed. And now!"
He turned the elegantly attired beauty around and tried to figure out how to remove her black satin gown.
"No, let me do it," insisted Molly, pulling away. "It will be faster."
"All right, but hurry," said the impatient Italian. Taking hold of his semi-hard cock, he lifted it up and said, "See the gift I have for you. It's all yours."
Molly knew that wasn't exactly true. Giovanni wasn't going to spend the whole evening with her. He would fuck her and then wander off in search of another available pussy. But he was giving her first crack at his cock, which was nice, and she didn't want him to regret it.
Molly stripped hurriedly, adding her gown, bra, panty-hose, and shoes to the other articles of apparel already on the carpeted floor. And then, when she was bare-assed naked, her cunt all a-quiver, she dropped to her knees in front of Giovanni and without so much as a word, shoved his cock into her hungry mouth.
"Ahhh, good," groaned the happy chauffeur, looking down at Molly. "Suck it hard, beautiful lady. Yes, like that."
With obvious relish, Molly worked on Giovanni's swollen manhood, her lust growing by leaps and bounds. On her knees, hands clamped onto the chauffeur's slim hips, she sucked like one to the manner born, her head bobbing up and down as her pursed lips slid wetly over the delicious dick.
Two minutes later, his lust at fever pitch, Giovanni ordered Molly to stop sucking him so that they could fuck. Molly obeyed instantly, yanking the now fully-erect cock from her mouth and then falling onto her back. She drew up her shapely legs and splayed her knees, thereby forming what she knew would be a most comfortable cradle for her partner.
Dropping onto his knees, the hump-hungry chauffeur worked himself into proper position and without delay accomplished penetration, his well-sucked prick sliding easily into Molly's hot, mushy cunt as he dropped onto her nakedness. And then he was working his cock in and out of the clinging softness.
"Oh, yes, fuck it good," moaned the runaway housewife, throwing her arms around Giovanni's hard back. "Screw hard, lover. Drive it into me."
"I will fuck you crazy," breathed the chauffeur. "Until you cannot see straight."
"Do it, Giovanni. Hump me good. Fuck faster."
The brown-eyed, black-haired Giovanni speeded up the tempo of his thrusts, and received in return a groan of delight from his grateful partner. In and out he worked his hard-on, digging deep into the slushy, comforting confines of Molly's clasping cunt. He felt her legs wrap around his middle and plunged yet another time into her quivering body.
Filled with lust, Molly took all the handsome chauffeur had to give her and asked for more. In breathless voice, she implored him to keep on fucking, to bang his cock into her with a vengeance, obscenities tumbling from her lips as she thrilled to the feel of his thick, throbbing tool, which was pistoning rapidly into her molten vagina.
All around her people were making love, if such it could be called, and the wet, slurping sounds of sex, the feverish grunts and groans of coupled couples writhing in lust, were more provocative and thrilling than the wildly sexual rhythms emanating from the stereo speakers.
And then Giovanni was blasting his mucky seed into Molly's bubbling cauldron of a cunt, a moan of pure delight breaking from his throat as he knew the ultimate in pleasure. Molly came a moment later, her arms and legs tightening around her ejaculating partner as the thrill of orgasm seized her roughly and shook her apart.
Breathing hard, Giovanni got to his feet, and for a few long seconds stood looking down at Molly, who lay now in wanton sprawl on the carpeted floor. Her head was still swimming.
Then he turned away and started for the bar, stepping over or around the entwined couples blocking his path. A quick drink, a shot to pick him up, and he knew he'd be ready for round two.
Molly remained on the floor for a full minute after Giovanni left. Then, her breathing under control, with the chauffeur's come still dribbling from her well-reamed cunt, she pushed up to a sitting position, and started to get to her feet. Had she noticed the stocky Italian standing over her, she might not have made the effort to rise.
"No, you don't my pretty one," said the grinning man, pushing Molly back down onto the floor. "I have a wonderful present for you. I know that you will just love it."
Molly recognized her assailant immediately.
It was Roberto Folare, the aging but still attractive film star who had appeared in Donnelli's last picture. He was about fifty and getting a little thick about the middle, and, in fact, he did not look anywhere near as distinguished naked and with a hard-on, as he did when fashionably-attired. But his silvery hair and smoldering blue eyes were a turn-on anyway.
"Please, give me a minute," pleaded Molly, trying to rise again.
"I've been watching you," said Folare. "You had your minute to rest. Now it is my turn to enjoy you."
With that, the determined actor shoved Molly back down and fell on top of her. He was into her quickly, a wicked lunge of his hips driving his thick, stubby pecker up to the balls inside the pooped beauty's messy womanhood. And then he was bouncing up and down, up and down, his breath heavy on Molly's face, as he worked his cock into her cunt.
Giovanni's savage screwing of her had helped calm her down, at least temporarily, and while she knew full well, it wouldn't be long before she was ready for another stud, Molly needed a little time to get back into the swing of things. Thus, she responded to Folare's fucking of her cunt with something less than enthusiasm. She remained almost motionless under him, letting him do all the work, while she dreamed of a good, stiff drink to revive her.
Fortunately, Folare was a man who had never bothered to learn self-control or how to prolong ejaculation. He came less than a minute after piling on Molly, huffing and puffing like one who had just ran the mile in record time. And then, exhausted, he rolled off his partner and onto his back.
Molly waited a few seconds, and then, after looking around just to be sure, pushed herself up to her feet. She staggered, caught her balance, and then started for the bar. It was only some ten feet away, but getting there involved plowing through a field of hot, sweaty, squirming flesh.
Arriving at the bar, Molly looked for Bobo, the tall, smartly-attired black from Jamaica who had been serving as bartender for Donnelli.
He was nowhere to be seen. Molly sent her eyes around the room, thinking that Bobo, being black, would stand out in this sea of writhing flesh, since everybody else was white. But no Bobo.
Molly was about to serve herself a drink from one of the many bottles standing on the bar, when she heard a noise from behind the bar. Moving a few of the bottles aside, she peered over the bar. Sure enough, it was Bobo. And he wasn't alone. Under him, and moaning like a madwoman, was a pretty young Italian girl, named Sophia, who had been introduced to her by Donnelli as an up and coming actress.
She certainly wasn't acting now. Sophia, The Starlet, was wallowing in lust, thrilling to the feel of Bobo's black cock as it pumped in and out of her hungry cunt. And just how big was that cock? It would be Interesting to find out.
Later, when Bobo was free, she would ask him to serve her a helping of-
"That's it, baby. Hold it right there," came a voice from behind Molly, intruding on her thoughts. And with the voice came a pair Of hands, clamped firmly onto her hips, locking her into position over the bar. "Don't move a muscle. Mmm, what a beautiful behind you have. So nice and round it is."
"Who are you?" asked Molly, trying to turn her head around to see who had grabbed her.
"What difference does it make? I am male, you are female."
"It wouldn't hurt to tell me your name," said Molly. That was the least he could do, she thought. Here she was, pinned up, or rather over the bar, her breasts flattened against the wooden bar top, and her fanny jutting out behind her, and the man responsible for her obscene position wouldn't even reveal his name. Under the circumstances, maybe it was silly to want to know who was intending to fuck you. Still and all-
"All right, it is Pietro. Now, are you happy?"
"Was I introduced to you?"
Pietro chucked lewdly. "No, baby, you weren't. That is why I am here, to correct that oversight. Right now."
Molly yelped as Pietro's long, slender prick rushed up into her tummy. She had hardly recovered from the sudden, swift stuffing of her cunt, when Pietro started pistoning his rod, poking it deep, withdrawing, and then poking it inside her again, as he humped her from behind.
"Hey, take it easy, will you?" protested Molly, still a little peeved at Pietro for not even giving her the chance to accept or reject his advances.
Pietro laughed and kept right on fucking.
Draped as she was over the bar, Molly had a bird's eye view of what was going on behind it. And what was going on was certainly sexy and exciting. Bobo was coming in Sophia, his smooth, taut, black buttocks bobbing rapidly as he pumped his creamy gunk into her eager vagina. Not surprisingly, the sexy young actress was moaning with joy.
The sight of Bobo's blackness covering Sophia's lightly-tanned, squirming nakedness was provocative indeed, thought Molly. Again, she wondered about the size of his tool. She had read somewhere that blacks possess pricks which, on the average, are larger than those of white males. As soon as Bobo finished with Sophia, she'd be able to see if this were so.
Molly didn't have long to wait. When the last of his sticky seed had spurted into the happy starlet's dark-haired womanhood, the tall, lean black bartender pushed himself up to his feet. Seeing Molly, he grinned.
"And what do we have here?" he asked in his mellifluous tones, which pinpointed his origins.
"She doesn't want a drink right now, Bobo," said Pietro, smiling lewdly as he continued screwing Molly from behind. "Maybe later."
"But perhaps the lady is hungry," said the attractive, middle-aged black from Jamaica. He bent down so that he could look at Molly's face. "Are you hungry, pretty lady? Tell me, and I will give you something to eat."
"Cock," said Molly softly, staring at the appealing length of black meat dangling between Bobo's legs. The fact that his tool had just left another female's syrupy cunt bothered her not at all. In fact, she found the idea of sucking such a big, messy organ tremendously exciting.
"What was that?" asked Bobo. "I didn't hear you."
"Cock," breathed Molly. "I want your cock. Stick it in my mouth, Bobo."
"Do it, Bobo," grinned Pietro. "You take care of one end, and I'll take care of the other."
The handsome black chuckled.
A moment later, as he took hold of Molly's head and cradled it in his large hands, he pushed his slimy root against her mouth. Molly vacuumed his member into her oral cavity, just as fast as she could, sucking it shamelessly as Pietro continued humping her from behind.
It went on and on, the affluent merrymakers fucking, sucking, and fucking some more until the wee, wee, small hours of the morning. Molly either fucked or sucked another eight men, enjoying herself to the limit with all of them. Every time she turned around there was a naked, grinning male ready to ball her.
She even got around to satisfying her host, the lecherous but lovable Salvatore Donnelli, who, when he got his chance, carried her upstairs to one of his bedrooms, and there, as she lay spread-eagled on the bed, ate her hot, sopping wet vagina until she came like nobody's business.
It was a night the runaway housewife would never forget.
She had had cock in her mouth, her twat, in her armpits, between her boobs.
Perhaps she had decided herself not to be a film star, but she fucked with the best of them, which was more than any other "average American housewife" could say.