Chapter 1
Marilyn rinsed the dishes quickly while she gazed out the window of her tiny kitchen at the spectacular southern California sunset. The evening sky was streaked with purple and crimson as the shimmering orange sun sank slowly behind the golden, boulder-strewn hills which surrounded the cottage. The rooms might be small, and the roof might leak occasionally, but whenever Marilyn looked out at the ruggedly rolling landscape, she felt as though she and Ralph were living in baronial splendor.
Nestled among the rock and chaparral which adorned the hills on the California side of the
Mexican border forty miles east of San Diego, their three-room cabin offered as much isolation as anyone living in southern California could ever hope for. After spending the first twenty-four years of her life struggling for a little elbow-room in the sprawling but overpopulated megalopolis of Los Angeles, the solitude of rural life s constituted a kind of paradise which she hoped never to leave.
Marilyn had always dreamed of living in the country, but it wasn't until she met Ralph, seven months before, that her dream had any chance of ever becoming a reality. She had been supporting herself ever since her parents died in an auto accident shortly after her seventeenth birthday. Turning down offers to stay with members of her mother's family, Marilyn had dropped out of school and gone to work, taking whatever jobs she could find. She waited on tables, answered telephones, and even washed cars. But she barely earned enough to pay her rent, and rarely held a job for more than a few weeks at a time.
Then, one day, she saw a "want ad" which caught her eye and fired her imagination. EARN TEN DOLLARS AN HOUR, it said. NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY. FIGURE MODELS WANTED. MUST HAVE PRETTY FACE AND GOOD FIGURE. APPLY IN PERSON. Marilyn read the ad over and over again, finally putting down the newspaper to stand in front of a mirror and study her reflection anxiously. At the age of eighteen, she had a blossoming womanly figure which drew appreciative stares from men wherever she went.
She was just five-foot-two, with a willowy body which tapered at the waist and flared sensuously at the hips and bottom. Her breasts were full and perfectly rounded, filling the front of her sweater with twin balls of resilient flesh which thrust straight out from the smooth plane of her chest. Her long red hair framed a lightly freckled gamin face, making her soft skin appear white and virginal next to the burnished brilliance of her silken tresses.
She had always been considered pretty, and she knew that her figure was good. But modeling was something that she had never even considered. For one thing, most of the models she had seen in magazines were tall and slender with flat little asses and almost nonexistent bosoms. She was certain that her firmly rounded buttocks and pendulous tits would disqualify her immediately. Yet the possibility of earning ten dollars an hour overcame her lack of confidence and made her decide to apply anyway. I've got nothing to lose, she told herself. It won't be the first job I've been turned down for.
Certain that she was wasting her time, Marilyn dressed in her tightest sweater and shortest miniskirt, assuming that a "figure model" should be prepared to reveal as much as possible. She brushed her soft red hair until it shone like the sun. Then, carrying the folded newspaper under her arm, she rode the bus to the address given in the ad.
The building was an old one, in a neighborhood which hung poised between deteriorating residential and low-rent commercial. It was flanked by a garishly advertised massage parlor on one side and a sleazy looking tavern on the other. A brightly painted sign proclaiming, FIGURE MODELING STUDIO-GROUP SESSIONS $7.50 PER HOUR, adorned the building's battered facade. Marilyn climbed a long flight of dusty stairs, with no idea of what to expect at the top.
At the head of the stairs was a glass door, rendered opaque by a carelessly applied layer of black paint. A small cardboard sign which was taped to the glass read, MR. PEEPER'S STUDIO. COME IN. Taking a deep breath in an effort to calm her jittery nerves, Marilyn reached for the handle and pushed the glass door open. Just inside the door was an ancient wooden desk, its top littered with papers and photographs. Behind it sat a young girl in a blonde wig. She was about the same age as Marilyn, but her face wore a hard and tired expression, making her appear much older than she actually was.
Marilyn did a double take when she saw that the girl was dressed in nothing more than a lacy black brassiere and matching panties. When she saw Marilyn, she affected a mechanical welcoming smile and said, "Hello. May I help you?"
"I don't know," Marilyn answered. "I came about the ad in today's paper. Do you know whether the job has been filled?"
The girl smirked. "There's always room for another," she answered. "Step into the other room and undress. Miss Terhune will be with you in a moment."
"Undress?" Marilyn echoed, flustered by the unusual instruction. "You mean take my clothes off?"
"Of course," answered the girl. "This is a figure studio. But don't worry about it. Nothing will happen to you. Miss Terhune is strictly business."
For a moment, Marilyn thought of turning on her heel and running back down the stairs and into the street. But the thought of multiplying her present income by five kept her rooted to the spot. There's no harm in going through with the interview, she thought. I can always back out later. "All right," she said. "Where do I go?"
"Through there," said the scantily clad receptionist, jerking her thumb towards a doorway behind her. "I'll tell Miss Terhune that you're waiting."
Marilyn walked uneasily through the door, closing it behind her. She found herself in a small, windowless room. Against the far wall was a leopard upholstered couch surrounded by floodlights mounted on stands. Dropping her newspaper onto a chair, she reached for the buttons at the front of her sweater. She opened them quickly, shrugging out of the clinging garment and dropping it on top of the newspaper. Then, unzipping the side of her short skirt, she let it fall around her ankles and stepped out of it, bending to retrieve it from the floor and folding it neatly before placing it on the chair next to her sweater.
She kept her underwear on, preferring not to be totally nude when meeting her prospective employer for the first time. Even if she was Miss Terhune and strictly business. She glanced quickly down at her body, glad that she had chosen to wear her prettiest brassiere, a red satin wisp which stretched tightly across the swollen mounds of her tits, separating and uplifting them erotically. Her panties, a brief triangle of taut cloth, were also red, though not really a match for the bra. She paced nervously, wondering what Miss Terhune would be like and trying to imagine, for the first time, what a figure model was expected to do.
Marilyn didn't have long to wait. Just moments after she had stepped out of her skirt, she heard the doorknob rattling and knew that someone was about to enter. Taking a deep breath, and holding it to emphasize the fullness of her ripe young bosom, she turned to face the door. She put on her prettiest smile, remembering all that she had learned about job interviews and knowing that first impressions are extremely important. But when the door opened and her interviewer entered the room, the smile froze to Marilyn's face.
"Miss Terhune" turned out to be Mister Hune, a heavy set man of about thirty-five with a balding head and black moustache. And, although his intentions may have been strictly business, his eyes glittered with a lustful sparkle which frightened and unnerved the young girl. Instinctively, she crossed her arms in front of her breasts, trying to shield them from his penetrating stare. "Ooooh," she gasped. "I thought..."
But the man interrupted her. "Don't try to hide it, honey," he said. "I like the way it looks. Show me the rest."
"I didn't know," Marilyn stuttered. "I thought the girl out front said you were Miss somebody. I mean ... I..."
Mister Hune laughed. "Say no more," he said. "This isn't the draft board. You're free to change your mind any time you want." He began to turn toward the door, reaching for the handle and preparing to leave the room. "Nice meeting you, uh...."
"Marilyn," she answered instinctively. Then, feeling that she owed him some sort of explanation, she added, "It isn't that I've changed my mind." She was searching frantically for words to explain her confusion. "I guess I just didn't realize what figure modeling was all about."
"Too bad," Hune replied, turning to face her again. "Because it looks to me like you've got what it takes. If you weren't so afraid to show it, the job would be yours."
"It would?" she asked, forgetting her modesty long enough to drop her hands to her sides. "At ten dollars an hour?"
"Well, let's not jump the gun," he said. "Are you interested or aren't you?"
"I ... I don't know," she stammered. "What would I have to do?"
"Easiest work in the world," he answered. "You take off your clothes and pose in the raw for a bunch of lecherous old men with Polaroid cameras. Most of the time they don't even bother to put film in 'em. But if you're squeamish about showing your body, forget it." He started for the door again. But this time his gesture was a calculated one. At least half of the girls who got this far took the bait. And he was sure that Marilyn would be one of those.
"Wait," she said, a note of urgency coming into her voice. "Is that all I'd be expected to do?"
"Absolutely," he answered. "This place is strictly legit. No hanky-panky of any kind. And absolutely no mingling with the customers allowed." The last part wasn't completely true, , since Hune didn't really give a damn about what his girls did in their spare time. He knew that most of them peddled a little ass on the side, but nobody could accuse him of having anything to do with that. What they did after hours was their own business. "Well, what do you say?" he demanded. "I haven't got all day."
"All right," Marilyn said, her nervous voice only a little louder than a whisper. "I'll try it." With trembling fingers, she reached behind her for the clasp of her bra, fumbling with it for a moment; stalling, pretending to be unable to find it. Then, when Mister Hune allowed his face to cloud over with an impatient expression, she quickly unsnapped it, freeing her swollen tits from the prison of the bra's confinement.
Hune inhaled sharply through his teeth as her naked boobs rolled from side to side before they settled into place once more. They were full and well-rounded, with large red nipples which were the size of half dollars and the color of late summer roses. She'll do very nicely, he thought. But he kept his face impassive and said, "The drawers too, please." His cock was beginning to stir inside his pants, it bulbous head straining at the coarse material. He bent one knee in an effort to prevent his stiffening organ from tenting too obviously at the crotch of his trousers.
Marilyn bit her lip in an effort to control her embarrassment. She felt a crimson blush spreading across her face, neck, and shoulders as the potbellied man examined her nudity with beady eyes which darted and flitted across the curves of her body. Reaching for the waistband of her panties, she hooked it with her thumbs, trying not to notice Mister Hune watching each of her moves with breathless anticipation. She had once taken off all of her clothes at a nude beach a few miles north of Los Angeles. But then the crowds of people which thronged the public beach had sheltered her, lending her an anonymity which seemed to protect her from prying eyes. Somehow this was very different.
Steeling herself by drawing a deep breath and holding it, she looked at the floor as she peeled the flimsy panties from her body. She felt the air of the room caressing the nakedness of her hips and belly as the wispy red undergarment pulled lower and lower. Then, with a sweeping movement of her arms, she drew them from her completely, baring her hair-lined pussy to his view.
"Turn around, please," he said, licking his dry and cracking lips with a nervous gesture of his tongue. "I have to see it all. The customers will want to, you know."
Marilyn turned slowly in place, trying not to meet his eyes with her own. She felt his stare burning into the naked softness of her buttocks. He continued to caress her visually, as she moved exposing each portion of her lasciviously naked body to his critical examination. Hune felt his throat becoming dry, the muscles of his larynx contracting in a futile effort to swallow the trickle of saliva which continued to flow inside his mouth. Finally, in a hoarsely croaking whisper, he said, "All right, Marilyn. You've got the job. You start tomorrow at noon. Don't be late!"
Moving quickly, as though he suddenly remembered an important engagement, he turned and fled from the room, leaving Marilyn alone with her confused thoughts. The promise of big money filled her consciousness, helping her to forget the embarrassment which she had felt a few minutes before. By noon the next day, she was completely prepared, both psychologically and emotionally, for her new career.
Ten dollars an hour turned out to be a pie-in-the-sky promise for a future that never materialized. But even four dollars an hour, her starting salary, was more than twice what she was accustomed to earning. And she really didn't mind the work at all, after a while. Most of the old men who paid to ogle her were sweet, harmless, and pleasant enough. She soon learned to stop feeling embarrassed at her nakedness. When people asked her what she did for a living, she told them only that she was a model.
And, in fact, it wasn't long before she started getting some real modeling assignments, supplementing her weekly salary with extra money on a more-orless regular basis. She was listed with at least half a dozen agencies and remained available for magazine layouts, lipstick ads, and anything else that came her way. But no one agency had an exclusive on her. She was strictly freelance, and she liked it like that.
She ran her love life the same way, sleeping with an occasional photographer or model's agent, but giving no one the exclusive right to possess her body. Until she met Ralph Bronson, seven months ago!
She was doing a "cheesecake" spread for one of the dozen or so L. A.-based girlie magazines which regularly availed themselves of her talents. This one was a pulp which ran black and white pictures of bare-assed and bare-breasted women to illustrate its badly written, semi-pornographic articles and stories. Dressed in a flimsy bikini, Marilyn waited for the photographer who was almost half an hour late.
While they waited, the layout men and assistant, editors who filled the studio gathered around her, posing and re-posing her while they pretended to discuss the layout. Marilyn knew that they were just jockeying for a better look down the front of her bikini bra and she had nothing but contempt for their clumsy, schoolboy subterfuges. Being looked at didn't bother her in the least. In fact, in a perversely exhibitionist way, she had come to like it. But these flunkies and hangers-on weren't even as honest, in their lechery, as the old men who haunted Mr. Peeper's figure studio with their empty cameras and bulging trousers. And she despised them for their weakness and loathed them for their shame.
By the time the photographer arrived, she had been directed into so many different positions that she was already tired. She resolved to give him a piece of her mind. But when Ralph Bronson strode into the studio, carrying a huge black camera case and wearing a friendly but confident grin, Marilyn's angry words stuck in her throat. There was something about the intense-looking young photographer which intrigued and fascinated her.
He wasn't exactly handsome, standing just five foot seven with a muscular, stocky body which was covered with a thick growth of curly black hair. But something about his swarthy skin and dark flashing eyes gave him a sexy and mysterious appearance which immediately robbed her of her anger. Without wasting words, he set up his cameras and began to work, directing Marilyn's poses with a series of monosyllabic grunts and abrupt jerks of his head. As she fell into her standard repertoire of classic cheesecake poses, she forgot the indignant speech which she had been rehearsing for the past ten minutes.
Ralph Branson was a man who was obviously in control of his situation, and somehow she couldn't bring herself to argue with him. When he murmured, "Strip, please," she peeled off her bikini gladly, anxious for an opportunity to display her voluptuous body to his professional inspection. But he hardly seemed to notice her. He moved swiftly from one camera to another, composing his pictures in a way that would make the hackneyed poses look fresh and creative when they appeared on the pages of the magazine which had hired them both. . like Marilyn, Ralph had been on his own since his teens, having gone off to live by himself when his widowed mother married a man with whom he didn't see eye to eye. He had always managed to earn his living with his cameras, going the whole route from wedding pictures to baby portraits, work which often required more selling than picture taking. When he met Marilyn he was twenty-seven, making the bulk of his living by photographing tits and asses for any publication willing to pay his price. He was a tough young freelancer who valued his independence more than money and enjoyed his work, having polished his craft until it gleamed with the brilliance of creative art.
Marilyn was impressed with him, both as a photographer and as a man. When he asked her to join him for dinner, she accepted immediately. Afterwards, they went directly to his apartment where they mad violent love for hours, rolling passionately on the surface of his king-sized mattress until they had fucked themselves into a state of exhaustion. Marilyn spent the night at Ralph's apartment. And the next night. And the one after that. After a week, it became clear to both of them that they were going to be together for a long time.
A month later, a publisher Ralph knew offered him an opportunity to break away from city life and try something new. The publisher would furnish Ralph with a cabin in the country-rent free-and a list of available models. In return, Ralph would shoot pictures to illustrate a series of sex books which the publisher was planning. The pay was good and the living would be easy, but Ralph refused to commit himself until he had an opportunity to discuss the offer with Marilyn.
When she heard about it, she jumped at the chance. It would mean getting away from the city which she hated, and having an opportunity to breath good, clean country air. And best of all, it would mean that she and Ralph could spend almost all of their time together. Now, staring up at the thick white Milky Way which lit the sky over their little cabin in the hills, Marilyn murmured a silent prayer of gratitude for the good fortune which had brought them together and which had led them to this place.
She could hear Ralph moving about in his dark-room as he put the finishing touches on his day's work. A moment later, his door opened and she was conscious of his footsteps approaching her from behind. She pretended not to notice, busying herself with a dish and a sponge. Suddenly, he was behind her, his arms circling her torso and his hands cupping the softness of her tits through the silky material of her blouse.
Her nipples began to harden immediately as his fingers moved slowly across the resilient surface of the twin mountains of firm, ripe flesh. Her boobs were like the succulent fruits of some exotic tropical tree-rich and juicy, at the peak of flavorful maturity. "Mmmmmmmmmnnnnnn," she murmured as he squeezed gently at the creamy mounds.
Suddenly, a coyote's howl shattered the stillness of the quiet country night. Marilyn shivered, feeling the skin at the back of her neck crawl with tingling gooseflesh. The coyote howled again.
"Sounds like he caught a rabbit," Ralph said, his soft and gentle voice almost reverent. "He's fed and he's free."
"Like us," Marilyn whispered. "Fed, free, and all alone. With no one to disturb us, if you know young freelancer who valued his independence more than money and enjoyed his work, having polished his craft until it gleamed with the brilliance of creative art.
Marilyn was impressed with him, both as a photographer and as a man. When he asked her to join him for dinner after the session, she accepted immediately. Afterwards, they went directly to his apartment where they made violent love for hours, rolling passionately on the surface of his king-sized mattress until they had fucked themselves into a state of exhaustion. Marilyn spent the night at Ralph's apartment. And the next night. And the one after that. After a week, it became clear to both of them that they were going to be together for a long time.
A month later, a publisher Ralph knew offered him an opportunity to break away from city life and try something new. The publisher would furnish Ralph with a cabin in the country-rent free-and a list of available models. In return, Ralph would shoot pictures to illustrate a series of sex books which the publisher was planning. The pay was good and the living would be easy, but Ralph refused to commit himself until he had an opportunity to discuss the offer with Marilyn.
When she heard about it, she jumped at the chance. It would mean getting away from the city which she hated, and having an opportunity to breath good, clean country air. And best of all, it would mean that she and Ralph could spend almost all of their time together. Now, staring up at the thick white Milky Way which lit the sky over their little cabin in the hills, Marilyn murmured a silent prayer of gratitude for the good fortune which had brought them together and which had led them to this place.
She could hear Ralph moving about in his darkroom as he put the finishing touches on his day's work. A moment later, his door opened and she was conscious of his footsteps approaching her from behind. She pretended not to notice, busying herself with a dish and a sponge. Suddenly he was behind her, his arms circling her torso and his hands cupping the softness of her tits through the silky material of her blouse.
Her nipples began to harden immediately as his fingers moved slowly across the resilient surface of the twin mountains of firm, ripe flesh. Her boobs were like the succulent fruits of some exotic tropical tree-rich and juicy, at the peak of flavorful maturity. "Mmmmmmmmmnnnnnn," she murmured as he squeezed gently at the creamy mounds.
Suddenly, a coyote's howl shattered the stillness of the quiet country night. Marilyn shivered, feeling the skin at the back of her neck crawl with tingling gooseflesh. The coyote howled again.
"Sounds like he caught a rabbit," Ralph said, his soft and gentle voice almost reverent. "He's fed and he's free."
"Like us," Marilyn whispered. "Fed, free, and all alone. With no one to disturb us, if you know what I mean.! " She made her voice lewdly suggestive as she spoke the last words, rolling her hips sensuously to rub her ass against his cock which had stiffened and was pushing insistently at the front of his pants.
"I think I get the idea," he said, unbuttoning her blouse and slipping his hand inside it. She wore no bra, and could feel the callused skin of his fingertips grazing over her satiny breasts as he moved his hand gently from one to the other, petting their creamy surfaces and rolling the puckering nubbins of her nipples between his thumb and forefinger.
"Ooooooooooohhhhhhh," she sighed. "Let's go to bed."
Ralph lifted her in his muscular arms, pressing his lips to one naked nipple and carrying her to their bed which stood in a far corner of their long, L-shaped living room. Stepping carefully over and between the wires, lights, and tripods which ringed the mattress and allowed it to double as a photo studio two or three days a week, he lowered her to the surface of the bed.
Reaching immediately for the snap at the front of her jeans, he undid it and tugged at her zipper, pulling the pants from her and exposing the bristly red bush which furred the mound of her pubis, framing her pussy erotically. Leaning forward, he buried his face in the fragrant mat, nudging at the prominence of her clitorial mound with his nose and nibbling lovingly at her upper thighs with his lips.
"Oooooooooooh, yeeeeessssssss," Marilyn hissed, reaching for his zipper and opening the front of his trousers. His thick red cock sprang free of his pants the minute that she began slipping them down around his hips. Reaching for it hungrily, she wrapped her fingers around its burgeoning circumference. She squeezed gently to express the love which she felt for the organ which had brought her so much pleasure in the last half a year, and the sight of which never failed to set her body atremble with passionate yearning.
Ralph wriggled his hips from side to side, slipping out of his pants and freeing his cock and balls completely from confinement. Then, inflamed by the lust which had been building in his scrotum ever since he began developing the shots of yesterday's session in his darkroom earlier that day, he mounted her, thrusting his turgid cock at the warm slit of her cunt with no further preliminaries.
Her rubbery cunt lips were still dry and resisted his entry with an almost virginal tightness which heightened his excitement even further. Ralph was usually thoughtful and considerate in their lovemaking, but once in a while it thrilled Marilyn to be taken by him swiftly and without foreplay. When this happened, he became almost brutal in his excitement, jabbing mercilessly at the unyielding red slash which split her lower body. At last the lips parted and the thickly pointed tip of his hard-on found entry, burying itself ruthlessly in the tightly clasping tunnel of her pussy.
"Aaaaaaaghhhhhh," she grunted as his long, rock-hard penis probed the heated depths of her still-dry vaginal passage. The abruptness of his penetration hurt her a little, but she enjoyed the pain, savoring it the way a virgin savors the agony of her defloration. She looked up to see Ralph's face contorting in ecstasy, the pleasurable friction of her unlubricated cuntal walls against his driving cock calling up a hot load of joy juice from the swaying chamber of his bloating scrotum. She knew that he was only moments away from his orgasm and that there was no hope of her catching up with him to join him in the ecstatic release of pent-up passion.
But she didn't mind letting him get one ahead of her. She knew that he would make it up to her later. In spite of the fact that he was only a few years away from thirty, he was a sexual powerhouse. It wasn't at all unusual for him to cum two or three times in a night. And he never let her down. She spread her legs wide to allow him to drive deeper within her and to reduce the pain of his rhythmic thrusts into her unprepared cunt.
At last she saw his eyes roll back until only the whites were showing, and she knew that his climax was about to begin. His breathing was hoarse and labored and a tiny rivulet of spittle oozed from the corner of his mouth as he toiled atop her writhing body. She could feel his cock swelling inside her, like a rubber syringe filling with the hot fluids of life. Then, with a pathetic groan of passion-relieved, he threw himself forward, pressing his body against hers and burying his pumping dick to the hilt inside her. She felt the first hot blast of whirling cum shoot from the tip of his cock, inundating her pussy with syrupy moisture as he drew back for another thrust.
Again and again, he drove forward, pumping scum from his dick and filling her belly with it. As his cock fucked into her, the rough material of his shirt bruised and scratched at the smooth, white softness of her bare titties. But he was oblivious to everything but the satisfaction of his animal needs and the fulfillment of his bestial lusts. When at last he was finished, he rolled off her, lying at her side and breathing heavily. "Ooooooh," he moaned. "I needed that. I've been looking over yesterday's proofs, and they're dynamite. My cock was so hard that my balls ached.. Don't know what I'd do without you."
Marilyn rubbed her cunt gingerly, the movement of her fingers easing the lingering hurt of his brutal penetration. "Will we be shooting another session tomorrow?" she asked meaningfully.
"Yes," he answered. "A threesome. Two girls and a guy. They'll be here around ten."
"Then I'd better stay close to home," she said, winking elaborately at him. "You'll probably need me when you're finished shooting." They both laughed. Ralph had never reached that fabled state of business-like indifference, at which all photographers were said to arrive. He always came out of a session with a burning and unabashed desire for sex.
Suddenly their laughter was interrupted by a loud slamming noise from outside. "What the hell was that?" Ralph asked with a start.
"Sounded like a car door to me," Marilyn answered. "But I can't imagine anybody coming here to see us." Their cabin was at the end of a long dirt road, and, except for a smaller cottage nearby, they were completely alone. The other cottage had been vacant for as long as Ralph and Marilyn had been living there.
"Maybe I'd better go and take a look." said Ralph. "Somebody might be lost." Pulling on his pants, he rose from the bed and headed for the door. "I'll be right back," he said. "Keep the bed warm."
"Hurry up," she said. "Don't forget, you owe me one."