Chapter 1
Fifty million Americans wanted to fuck Jacqueline Armstrong. At least fifty million. If she'd had the same land of magazine and television exposure in France, fifty million Frenchmen-the French, they are a funny race-would have wanted to go down on her. And fifty million Frenchmen can't be wrong.
"Exposure' was a word that went naturally with Jackie Armstrong, known in millions of American households as The All-American Girl,' known wistfully, privately, to millions of horny heads-of-households as the AU-American Dream-Fuck. She reached those households over and over in the course of every year on countless magazine covers, and in a deluge of magazine advertisements and television commercials for a variety of products ranging from motor cars to miniskirts, from dog food to depilatories. And 'exposure' was the word for Jackie, because she loved to expose her mouth-watering body, as much of it as possible, as often as possible.
If the household phrase for her started with 'All-American,', in the various inside worlds of commerce she was known by a different assortment of tag lines. In the travel industry, for example, after a full-page advertisement for a cruise line had focused male risibilities on her long luscious legs displayed on a boat's rail, she was known as The Snatch That Launched a Thousand Ships.' In the automotive trade, after those same legs were shown invitingly spread as Jackie got from behind the wheel of a sports car, the slogan describing her appeal was There's a Fuck in Your Future.' All along Madison Avenue, whenever a product needed selling, the automatic cry was, "Let's use the Cunt Supreme-the Cunt that makes them want it, whatever it is."
They were talking about Jackie. Any time of the day or night, somebody somewhere was talking about Jackie. Thinking about Jackie. Having a hard-on over Jackie.
But despite her fame and fortune, Jackie Armstrong was not quite satisfied. Her 'exposure' was not enough. She was both a tease and an exhibitionist at heart, and what she really wanted, without knowing it, was the land of exposure that her agent handed to her on a silver platter one cool summer morning. Also without knowing it. He mentioned it only as a joke, to see how she'd react.
"You got an offer from Denmark yesterday," he said, riffling through a sheaf of letters on his desk. He walked his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other and glanced at her under lowered eyelids.
"What kind of an offer? From whom?"
"Some Danes. Some Danes with a sex magazine."
"You mean an offer to pose for some of those nude photographs?"
"Spread shots, they're called, honey."
Jackie was conscious of a sudden strange excitement.
"What kind of money?" she asked, playing it cool. "Danish money," he said, taking the cigar out of his mouth. "Good Danish money, plus good Danish travel expenses, but what difference does it make? You're not going to do it."
She was quiet for a minute, lighting a cigarette.
"I've always wanted to see Copenhagen," she said, dropping her match in an ashtray.
"You're crazy," he said, staring at her across the desk, "even to think about it. What about your vast, devoted, clean-living American public?"
"Fuck my American public."
"That's what we're doing, honey," he said. "That's what we're doing."
"Anyway that vast, devoted, clean-living American public has no business looking at dirty Danish magazines."
"You are crazy," he said, and shrugged. "But like we used to say in the Boy Scouts, it's your ass."
A lot of the modeling Jackie did was leg modeling, and legs were most often photographed with the model lying on her back, her legs in the air. The position did something for the softer, more voluptuous lines of the legs, the swelling of the calves, the trimness of the ankles. Not that Jackie's legs needed a whit of improving, but she was prepared to assume that familiar position when she walked into the Copenhagen studio.
In New York, or in Chicago, or in Los Angeles, when she was lying on her back with her legs in the air, the photographer was always very professional and circumspect and cautious about not taking shots that would show even a hint of crotch or panties, or, heaven forbid, hair. But now, as she came into the studio in Denmark, with the photographer and his assistant busy making arrangements for her full-color photographs, she wasn't even wearing pants.
When she raised her skirt and leaned back with her legs apart and put her pussy on open display for the first time-professionally-she found that she was trembling a little, with a combination of self-consciousness and excitement. The Danish photographer stood silent for a long moment, drinking in the sight. Jackie loved every second of his silence.
Raising his eyes heavenward, with a visible effort, the photographer finally spoke, in his oddly cadenced English.
"It's too lovely," he said, "much too lovely to be called a cunt. It's more like a flower, unfolding. An orchid."
She was deeply pleased. Jackie had studied her twat often, in the mirror at her dressing table, raising one knee at a time and opening her thighs slightly to get a better view. The hair of her luxuriant bush, nestling around her cunt, was extraordinarily long, fine, almost silken, and a glossy jet black, like the hair on her head. The dusky pink outer lips of her cunt were slender in repose, fuller at the center, then curving in to cleanly defined terminations both top and bottom, giving an impression of neatness and smallness. At the center, a hint of the inner lips showed, and when Jackie opened her legs the delicate folds blossomed, a brighter pink, like petals on a rose.
Evidently the same thought was going through the mind of the Danish photographer.
"For the first photographs," he said, "I would like to make some arrangements of the petals of that little flower. Do you mind?"
"Of course not," Jackie said, not quite sure what he meant.
She watched with mounting excitement as he knelt before her, spread her outer cunt-lips delicately with his fingertips, and licked her tender moist crevice gently, with just the tip of his tongue.
She felt her hips begin to move, involuntarily, as his skilled tongue moved deftly within the tender intricate folds of the quivering confines of her cunt. By the time he withdrew his tongue to step back to his camera, she knew that her outer twat-lips were swollen and parted, the inner petals wet and gleaming for the lens.
For almost an hour the photographer and his assistant took pictures of her, in every conceivable position, from every conceivable angle that allowed the camera to focus on the opened, inviting, pink, moist intricacies of her cunt. In her new-found excitement, she went out of her way to please, to open herself up, to spread her legs wide, to pose her pussy in every way that made it as soft, as welcoming as possible.
At one point her pussy's open welcome evidently became too much for the photographer's professional poise. He stepped away from his camera and toward her, starting to undo his trousers.
She frowned slightly and shook her head.
"Maybe later," she said. "Let's finish this job now." After all, she was a professional too.
But when the job was finished there was no maybe about it. Without a word from either of them, when they'd indicated that the shooting was over, she walked to the door of the studio and locked it, then turned and looked at them, celestially naked, and smiling.
"Now, you angel," the photographer asked, "what would you like to do?"
"Anything at all," she said, doing an exquisite little bump, holding her opened cunt up toward them like a bird dog at point. "Anything. As long as I fuck you both to a Danish frazzle."
They were fumbling frantically in their haste to strip off their clothes as she moved slowly around them, undulating her hips and preferring her pussy as the focal point of their stares, toward the large easy chair they'd used to pose her cunt to advantage in many of the shots. By the time she'd settled in the chair, with one leg draped over an arm, swinging lazily, her openly beckoning cunt pouting pinkly at them, they were both naked, their cocks rigidly, burstingly erect.
Me, she thought, smiling with satisfaction, The Ail-American Dream-Fuck. Also the All-Scandinavian Dream-Fuck. Her cunt oozing in anticipation, she appraised their ready cocks with expert eyes.
Her eyes widened with pleasure as she mentally measured the length and breadth of the photographer's howitzer of a hard-on. Thor, his name was, she remembered from the early introductions, and he was aptly named, and aptly hung. Or sprung. His mammoth tool sprang out from his tangled blond pubic growth like a sturdy oaken limb. It was the color of oak, too, and roughly the thickness of her wrist. She stared at it for a long moment, in delighted wonder, at the great shaft pointed toward her, toward her wet welcoming cunt, but higher, at eye-level. Behind and below the tightly-stretched skin of his apple-hard prick-head, the long, thick shaft seemed to diminish in the distance, like straight railroad tracks on a level plain.
She tore her eyes away from it to look at Thor's young assistant, Carl, who was visibly shaking in anticipation. His stiffly twitching cock was long, and slender, and white, and its brightly blushing head seemed ready to explode. It would explode, she knew instinctively, only moments after it slipped between the soft slippery lips of her greedy, gobbling, fuck-famished twat. She felt a wash of compassion for Carl. She'd take care of him, first. He'd last longer when he fucked her later.
"Come here, Carl," she said softly, then opened her mouth and beckoned him with the tip of her tongue as he stepped close, alongside the arm of the chair.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Thor step forward and drop to his knees between her spread legs. She moved her hips, bringing her pussy forward, to the edge of the seat.
"For you, my cunt," she murmured, "my juicy cunt, on a platter. Eat it. Gobble it."
And as Thor began to lick and suck and slake his thirst for her pussy, as the exquisite torment of his skillful tongue teased her toward inner rapture, she slid her full warm lips over the thrusting crimson head of Carl's cock, opening her mouth to take in much of the slender length, letting her tongue slide underneath, licking the undershaft, back and forth, with soft fluttering strokes.
"Aaah," Carl said, "aaah," and put his hand lightly behind her busily shuttling head. She sucked his eager cock gently, lovingly, wetly, using her tongue now to tickle it under the head, then lick up the pulsing undershaft with long, slow strokes. Her own hips were beginning to pump, as Thor gobbled the streaming juices of her tingling twat.
She could hear Carl breathing and moaning, in a ll sort of frenzied contentment, until his hips took on an urgency, and she felt his hands come up to rest over her ears.
Tm going to come, lady," he said, in his halting English.
A gentleman, she thought, and kept right on sucking, harder and faster, her mouth making soft slurping sounds as it slid up and down his tensing shaft. He came, then, in a series of pumping surges, splashing his juices in great gusts into the back of her throat. She swallowed, again and again, and kept on sucking, until he was dry. She looked up at him, and smiled tightly above the building rapture between her thrusting thighs. Carl stepped back and away as his cock lowered its head.
She felt a breath of air on the tender exposure of the moist membranes of her open cunt, as Thor lifted his mouth away and appeared beside the chair, still on his knees, where Carl had been.
He leaned over the chair arm toward her. His open mouth found a wet warm sucking welcome on her own, and his tongue plunged in and began a frantic tango with hers. She felt his hands enjoying her, all over her, sliding, squeezing, stroking, pinching at her hard inflamed nipples. She felt a finger sliding urgently into the slime of her quaking cunt.
She tore her mouth from his and lay back in the chair with an in-sucking gasp, opening her legs even wider, spreading her thighs in long-delayed, wanton need.
"No," he said, looking deep into her eyes. He seemed to be smiling, faintly. My God, she thought, a crazy Dane. What a time to make jokes.
"No, what?" She was squirming.
"No. Not here."
He was crazy. She was in an agony of waiting, of totally abandoned torment.
"Not in the chair. On the floor. There's more room."
Thank God, she thought, he wasn't crazy at all. She lid swiftly to the rug.
The photographer arched over her, bracing himself on his elbows, and she flung her legs joyously around his lean hips, hooking her heels behind him. His tanned face, smiling gently, was directly over hers, his eyes looking steadily into her own. She reached down and swung the great boom of his heavy cock toward her, bringing the hard clenched fist of the head against the hot swollen lips of her silently screaming cunt.
Thor eased the stabbing shaft forward an inch, two inches, until part of the head was engulfed in her wet quivering twat entrance. Then he stopped, holding his hips immobilized.
"Oh, please," she almost sobbed, between her squeezed-shut teeth. "Please. Put it in. Fuck me now. Fuck me deep. Just put it in."
"All of it?" He was smiling broadly now. Oh my God, Jackie thought. TV, never be a tease again.
"All of it. Every hard fucking inch of it." It was almost a prayer, the way she said it.
He began to slide the long velvet log of his cock into her then, slowly, an inch at a time. She unhooked her heels from behind and let her legs lie wide apart, spreading the red carpet of her cunt for his royal entrance, but as the thick rigid shaft approached the end of its first rapture-carrying trip into the depths of her gulping cunt-cavern, her knees jerked up spasmodically, and her legs began to flail around behind his back.
When the great shaft was fully imbedded, to the hilt, his pelvis grinding hard against her squirming, squeezing cunt-entrance, she hooked her heels behind him again and raised her hips, pushing herself tighter against the base of his jamming cock. His hands came up behind her, holding her shoulders, as he drew the shaft slowly outward, then plunged it in again. It seemed to reach even deeper as the walls of her cunt opened wider to accommodate the length and breadth of his gigantic, surging prick.
That's it," she breathed. "Deep. Fuck deeper."
He began to fuck her, deeply, with long, slow, driving strokes, and her hips rose and fell, rose and fell, in perfect time with his own slow rhythm, her cunt clutching and sucking and holding the slippery shaft as if reluctant to let go on every out-stroke, squeezing and embracing every deepening plunge to her inner depths. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and she could hear only the sound of her own hips and buttocks pounding on the carpet as the tempo of his fucking increased. She became aware of a slapping sound, too, from the wild beating of his heavy balls in the exquisite but sweaty crevice of her ass.
Her own moans were louder now, becoming gasping little screams, and she knew her fingernails were raking the smooth sldn of his back. But she couldn't help herself, couldn't stop anything she was doing. The pounding of her hips sounded as frantic as the frenzied struggles of an impaled moth. Her rapture swelled to a crescendo, then peaked in a blinding orgasm, searing, pounding, choking her in a smothering wave of sensation.
"Now," she screamed, "oh, God, now."
He drove his thick oaken cock deep into her in a pounding fury of lightning strokes, and as she shuddered and jerked convulsively she felt his hot juices spurting into her, gushing deep, flooding her deep cave of cock-loving joy. She put her arms and legs tight around him, and just hung on, as he kept the hard core of her ecstasy buried deep inside her cunt, letting the diminishing ripples of her passion wash over it.
It was a long time before the spasms subsided enough for her to let go of him. She lay back limply on the rug, looking up at him, as he drew his slackening organ out of the tender clutch of her sated cunt and got to his feet He looked down at her, lying stretched out on the rug, her legs still apart, her cunt oozing contentment
He smiled, but said nothing.
"To think," Jackie murmured, "that I was going to fuck you both to a Danish frazzle."
"There's still lots of time," Thor said, bending to uncork a bottle of Aquavit standing on an end table. "We're finished for the day."
Jackie sat up, and, miraculously, felt a faint tingling starting in the depths of her cunt a glowing of coals where she should be nothing but fucked-out ashes.
"Finished, you say?" she asked, as young Carl moved over quietly to stand close to where she sat
"For today," Thor grunted.
That's what you think," Jackie said, and reached up to stroke the rising length of Carl's lively, smooth-skinned cock.