Prologue

"Wheeeeeee!"

"Hey, Mark, give me some of that!"

"That's the plan, baby," he said, his blue eyes flash lit behind dark lashes.

Bev Hunt was nearly creaming over the bar stool, she wanted it so bad, and Fran Charkowski was coming on like a truckload of turkeys. The pungent reek of grass permeated the room on De Longpre Street where Mark Grant got his seldom mail.

Mark was doing a wild gyrating dance to a Led Zephlin mover and when he bucked his tight, pants displayed his considerable bulge to advantage. He liked to brag about that, saying that "Tom Jones pays me a few grand a year just to stay out of sight," and that's what the dark-haired slink named Bev was talking about when she said, "Hey, Mark, give me some of that."

He had it to give, solid.

Bev had a mini skirt that wouldn't quit. As she sat on the tall bar stool, the fabric slid up enough so that Mark could see her black panties. Her thighs seemed to be sculpted as an invitation for him alone, her hips like an enclosure, waiting.

Fran was moving in counterpoint to Mark, and her miniskirt of imitation leather was crawling up her thighs like a curtain opening on some wild kind of show. Her honey hair was askew over her heart-shaped face, but Mark could see full lips pouting red in concentration. He didn't have to fake the bulge in his pants.

"Far out," said Bev, moving her well-turned ass on the bar stool, her legs dangling like a Siamese welcoming committee clad in black silk.

"Mmmmm," said Fran, thrusting her hips at Mark to the hot beat of the bass guitar.

Mark was in a sensuous world of his own, caught up in the rhythm, the heady atmosphere of the Zep and the grass, his own manhood spurred on by the girls. There were others in the room, but they were engrossed in worlds of their own. Hank and Jane were tonguing each other's throat in a far corner and a spade chick Mark invited was grooving with a young stud who had never had his first piece of ass. It was that kind of party; a farewell party, with no limit on any thing. It was Mark's last night out on the town. A kiss-off to L.A. and the square steady life. For a while. Nearly three months.

"Where you going again, Mark?" asked Bev who wanted to tear him away from his dance with Fran.

"To the hills, baby," he breathed, pushing his hips at Fran. "Up in the boonies."

Bev's laugh crackled like ice cubes in her glass of Scotch and water.

"What d'ya wanta go up there for with a bunch of kids?" asked Fran. She seemed ready to attack the blond man she was dancing with. Mark smiled at her and brushed back his bleached hair. Fran was his people. He used the name Grant, but she knew him as Grabowski, almost a cousin in the Pole way of looking at such things.

"It's a living, and it's summer in a groovy place," he laughed.

The record ran out and they both zigged to the bar where they zagged stools around Bev. The girl couldn't help herself; she ran the palm of her hand over the smooth contours of his bulge and pressed against the half-hardness. "You could do just as well here," she soothed, her voice like some kind of dark velvet.

Mark shook his long blond hair back and smoothed it, reached for his half-finished drink. "Yeah, I could stay here, but it's not part of the plan, Bev." He raised a finger to his forehead. "You see, I've got a plan."

Fran leaned around Bev and looked at him, wishing she were closer, as close as Bev was.

"What's the plan?" she asked.

"Aha," he said. "The plan is something."

"Well?" challenged Bev, curious.

"Yeah, Mark, don't be so secretive," said Frank. "We know this is a farewell party, but you didn't fill us in."

He lanked his long form on the barstool and faced the two heavy chicks. "Well, kids, as you know, I've been sweating it out in the ad agency for damned near two years. I picked up a lot of shit and I'm still out in the cold. But something great has come upon the horizon."

Bev almost curled her body into his as though to deny his words. She sipped from her glass and reached for the roach.

"You've got something cooking, Mark, fill us in," she said.

"Okay," he grinned, "but only if you promise to listen and then enjoy the party. I want to have tonight for all of us and not think about the future. I've done enough of that already."

"Hey, it's a promise," offered the sinuous Fran.

"I'll go along with that," said Bev, dragging deep on the roach.

Mark splashed some of his Scotch into his mouth and looked into some imaginary distance. He was a well-built man in his late twenties, aggressively handsome, sure of himself. He had a strong jaw and sensitive mouth. He smacked his lips. "It's like this, kids," he said. "You know I've been hacking the summer scene for a while with youth groups, and all, and I finally landed a cool gig at Wood Dell. It's an exclusive summer camp in the Sierra Madres, not too far away from here. But that's not the point. Like I've got this million-dollar idea, you know?" He paused for the effect he wanted.

Bev and Fran hung on every word.

"This week, I got it all together. I think." He paused again, trying to get his words out in the way he wanted. "You know Reynolds Industries?"

Bev and Fran both nodded.

"Well, they've made pretty fantastic records in several fields, aerospace, oil, airlines, and lately, motion pictures."

"About the biggest conglomerate going," said Fran, and Bev nodded.

"Right," said Mark, "and they're still going. Still moving ahead. I've been watching their stocks. But the biggie coming up is video cassettes, and through my private sources, I found out that old man Reynolds is heavy into the hardware end of that."

"I don't think I know what you're talking about now," said Fran. She had moved her stool out from the bar so that she was now as close as Bev was to Mark.

"Well, it's a rat race and who knows what is really a true picture," says Mark. "CCS has their EVR-electronic video recording, and there are a half dozen others in there, Sony, Avco, and what not. It's a system whereby you can hook into your present TV set and see whatever you want to on film. Like I mean you'll be able to go into a store and buy a John Wayne film for maybe seven or eight bucks and watch it as often as you want to."

"Outta sight," said Bev, before she burned her fingers on the last of the roach.

"So, everybody's into the act," said Mark. "All the giant companies are developing their own methods of presenting film in the privacy of the home and Reynolds is in the vanguard."

"So?" said Fran.

"So, yours truly, Mark Grant, just made a super proposal to Reynolds Industries about the software."

He let it hang and both girls gave him looks of complete blankness.

"What the hell's software?" ventured Fran.

Mark laughed. "The goddamn film. The product," he said earnestly.

"What about the John Wayne movies?" asked Bev.

"Fuck the John Wayne movies," he said. "That'll be fine for a while, but don't you see it opens up a whole new industry. All of these outfits will need something made for them. Exclusive. That's where your erotic genius Mark Grant comes in."

Fran gave him a puzzled look. So did Bev.

"Okay. Don't panic. I made a bitching proposal to Reynolds about this part of it. I propose to write and produce a whole big schmear of software for his firm-special films in all fields, educational, entertainment, the works. I've been waiting for something like this to come along. I've out-lined a whole set of films, -lined up crews, etc. I don't see how they can pass it up."

"But, man, you're talking to the biggest," said Fran. "They're already in the movie business."

"Right on," said Mark, pointing his finger at her. "But that's what bogs them down. They need short things, interesting things, created just for this market. My own ad agency is backing me up. They gave me a leave of absence and the wherewithal to promote this venture. We even have our own producing company."

"I still don't get it," said Bev. "Why are you going off to some kid camp for the summer?"

"Good point," he said, winking.

Both girls leaned off their stools.

"I am going to do the woodland thing because guess who is going to be one of the kiddies there at Wood Dell?"

"I'll bite," said Fran, "Lexington Averill Reynolds III, himself?'

Mark almost fell off his stool laughing. "The next best thing," he said when he recovered. "His daughter, Virginia Ware Reynolds, sole heir, et cetera, et cetera."

"You are a complete bastard," said Bev. "A complete egoist."

"Right on," said Mark.

"It sounds pretty devious to me," said Fran.

"Yeah, it's devious," he said, "like all business is devious. Look, I wrote a fifty-page proposal and my agency fellows checked it and it will take months for an answer. There's no reason I can't start to get in good with the top man. In fact, kids, as far as I'm concerned, that's the only way. If my stuff went through that complex monster known as Reynolds Industries, Incorporated, you know what would happen. It would fall by the wayside, no shit."

"Never leave any stone unturned," offered Bev, finishing her drink and looking very bored.

"It can't hurt, and it might help. Luckily I had the qualifications for this gig up there and it's almost certain I'll get to meet Reynolds himself. He thinks the world of that daughter of his."

"How old is this broad?" Bev asked as she went around the bar to build herself another drink.

"Hell, I don't know," he said. "In her teens. She's not been publicized. Reynolds has a thing about it. But my research, if it's correct, shows her to be in her late teens. And I'm the assistant counselor, me Marcus Grant, Polish ambassador of goodwill."

"You're crazy," said Fran.

"Like a fox," Mark grinned. He swung off his bar stool and joined Bev back of the bar.

"But that's enough business," he said. "Tonight we swing. You can read of my success in Barron's, the Wall Street Journal or Fortune. Tonight, we head it all off at the pass. There's a whole shoe box of grass around here, and I don't have to be in camp until tomorrow night or early the next day."

"That's more like it," said Fran sourly, holding her empty glass out to him.

"Smile," he said, and she did.

Back of the bar, Bev let him know what her feelings were. She found his crotch again and rubbed the bulge with her thighs. He pressed back and felt the yielding flesh. It was good, like a natural meeting between a man and a woman. He felt good about it. Her look became dreamy and he wondered how he was going to manage it with both of them there.

When he handed Fran her drink she gave him some reassurance by the way she looked at him.

It wasn't going to be so bad after all.

Mark lived in one of those new apartment houses where the owners don't care what you do because you pay enough rent to do what you want. He had a two-story apartment with a terrace, kitchen, bar, den, two bathrooms, and a large bedroom.

When he finished in the bathroom upstairs, he stepped out into the bedroom, zipping up his fly. A hand reached out and grabbed him before he could protest and he felt himself being jerked toward one of the twin beds. He heard a laugh crackle next to his ear, throaty and low, like a kitten in heat. As he fell on the bed, he half turned and saw that it was Bev who had propelled him against his will. Before he could recover from that shock of recognition, he heard another laugh, higher pitched and coming from a different direction.

It was Fran. She was leaning over him, her eyes glazed with a feline lust. Mark blinked and tried to sit up.

"We've got you now, big boy," laughed Bev.

"You're damned right," echoed Fran, "and we're not going to let you go."

"Until you satisfy us both," said Bev, plopping down beside him on the bed. Mark was still looking up backward into Fran's face, made lovely in the soft light, but from the angle, drawn macabre like a she-devil.

"That may be an impossibility," said Mark, "I've had quite a bit to drink and...."

"Bullshit," said Bev, her hand already rifling his fly.

Fran came around and sat on the other side of Mark, her fingers attacking the buttons on his shirt.

"I should have worn a sweater," Mark laughed.

"You should have worn an iron suit," said Fran.

"Would it have helped?" asked Mark.

"Not in the least," said Bev. Zip went his zipper. "Aha, there lies the sleeping giant!"

"Don't molest it," said Fran. "Not until he's completely stripped."

"That won't be long," said Bev, going at his buckle with her own brand of expertise.

"This is something," said Mark, leaning back on his arms. "Like a couple of scavengers. Pick away, girls. To the victors go the spoils. I just hope I'll be able to enjoy it."

"You will," said Bev. "Believe me you will."

And he was. To an exquisite degree.

Now naked, Fran was like delicate Aracline , spinning her web in preparation for her prey. Both were superb in their technique, alternately slow and gentle and rough and ... exquisite. From the moment Fran first touched him, Mark need not have worried about his power, despite the number of drinks he had consumed at his own party.

Her slender fingers took his limp cock into them like a connoisseur would hold a budding flower. Her fingernails slid gentle along the thick vein and stretched the hanging foreskin as though testing fine silk.

Bev, too, was naked, her mouth was searching for his scrotum, wet against the inside of his thigh, her tongue there and then not there, teasing in its lashing hints.

Mark felt his cock rise like a stalk out of warm fertile soil.

"Ahh!" breathed Fran. "Life. I have created life."

"Mmmm," murmured Bev, her mouth opening to enclose his sack, her tongue nudging it partially inside. Mark winced with the shock of the dampness on his scrotum.

Fran's hand closed around his cock in a tighter grip, pulling upward, feeling the thing swell with his hot blood. Bev's tongue laved away at his testicles bringing his erection farther up in Fran's hand.

"You both better be careful or you're going to have a mess on your hands," croaked Mark.

"You wouldn't dare!" said Fran.

"He better not," said Bev, from down under.

"Take it easy," soothed Fran.

"You take it easy," Mark laughed.

Fran looked at him a moment, then brought her mouth down to his cock. Mark arched his back as though galvanized. His cock slid inside her lips and found her working tongue, thickening saliva. "Oh, Jesus," he breathed, "but that's good."

Fran slid his cock in and out until it was smooth and slick, its hardness like a curved sculpture pulsing with life. Bev brought herself up for air-and to watch as Fran sucked their shared man.

"Man, you've got a beautiful cock," she said, as Fran slid his thickness in and out, in and out.

"Well, don't wear it out," Bev said, half sarcastically.

"It's guaranteed for life," breathed Mark, trying to think of something else. He knew both chicks would be disappointed if he shot his wad right at first. But that mouth of Fran's was bringing his juices to the bubbling point.

Suddenly, Fran stopped her suckling. "Man, I've got to have that cock inside me," she breathed.

In a tangle of hair and bodies, she slid up on top of Mark until she had her buttocks over his crotch. Reaching down, she grabbed his swollen cock with one hand and held it in position. Then she lowered her cunt until his member touched her lips. She slid down on it until it penetrated her lips and she felt its head enter her moist chamber. "Jesus, but that's good," she sighed.

"It's beautiful," said Mark and she plunged him home until all of his cock was inside her, pulsing in the hot dank folds of her pussy.

She slid up and down his throbbing length like an elevator with its controls stuck. She crooned to herself as the delicious ecstasy of his cock inside her blew her mind. Mark lay there, in control. He looked up at her and saw that her eyes were closed now, that she was concentrating on every inch of his throbber, feeling it not only in her body, but in her blown mind.

Bev watched everything with envy, her own body a mass of tangled messages. Heat and passion flooded her, but she enjoyed the watching, knowing that her turn was next. As she watched that oiled cock of Mark's disappearing in the depths of Fran's down-thrusting cunt, she felt her own organ respond as though it were she receiving the swollen pulser. "Man," Bev said, licking her lips.

Fran still had her eyes closed, but her steady rhythm remained unchanged. Every few seconds she would shudder without pausing in her u-pand-down riding.

Finally, Mark let himself go. He reached up and put his arms around Fran's shoulders. He pulled her down to him and kissed her, held her tight as he thrust upward, grinding his own hips to bury his shaft even deeper inside her.

"Ooooh," Fran moaned.

"That's it, Mark," said Bev. "Fuck her good, you bastard!"

"I am," he breathed, jamming himself inside the girl to the hilt. Their grinding found a common rhythm and Mark became swept up in the tumult of their twin passions. He pushed and jabbed until the head of his cock seemed about to burst. Fran screamed with the ecstasy of it and she came with a gush just as he did. He felt the explosion and the outrush of his seed. He held her very tight and moaned in her ear. Fran shuddered and scratched his back.

Bev felt her own juices gush inside her.

"Damn," she muttered. Fifteen minutes later, she had Mark aroused and on top of her, while Fran lay beside them both, exhausted.

Bev was not disappointed at seconds. Nor was Mark.

Fran just smiled, reliving her own series of orgasms. At one point, though, caught up in a passion he couldn't explain, Mark's hands had tightened around Bev's throat nearly strangling her. She choked, but in time, Mark realized what' he was doing and stopped. But it was disconcerting.

The next morning, feeling like a million, Mark hopped in his MG and drove off to Wood Dell, content. He felt that he could face the summer now with a confidence that his hedonism had given him. That was the way to live, he thought. Have a ball, no matter where you are, who you're with. He drove the freeway to the Sierra Madres with a good feeling in his loins. He looked forward to the fragrant smell of pines and the crisp, smogless air in the mountains. He was humming to himself as he drove.

The director of the camp, Belle Stern, had told him that he'd be expected to live an exemplary life while there-both in and out of camp. That's why he'd decided to have a farewell party for himself. If he was going to face a summer of celibacy, he at least wanted something to look back on.

But now he was thinking of Belle Stern, Camp Director of Wood Dell. Belle Stern and those blue eyes of hers! Too much!