Chapter 5

Later, Sam," I gasped some hours later, rolling nakedly away on his big bed in the back room. "I'm willing all right, but later, huh?"

"I can't wait," panted Sam, pawing me with his fat, pudgy fingers. "Do it for me again, huh?"

So I did it again.

It seemed to please him. Like, he yelled and squealed like a stuck pig, for Pete's sake!

I fell asleep right after. Like, I was tired!

I didn't sleep long, though. Sam woke me. "Touch me," he panted. "Touch me with the tips of your fingers."

I opened my eyes. Daylight. I looked at the clock on the wall. Eight a.m. I'd hardly had any sleep at all. Still, Sam was my new boss. And according to Chapter Four of Advanced Personnel Practices, I was supposed to be willing to give sexual first aid and comfort to my boss at any hour-if I sexed with him at all, that is.

And Chapter Three had detailed twenty-two good reasons why a young unmarried chick should sex it up with her boss, the most important being that it should be financially profitable. The most important reason I could see, at least.

So I rolled over and reached for Sam and began to touch him. Where he dug being touched the most.

Right at first he just lay there limp. But I kept on touching him and stroking and fondling him, since I figured he should know if he was in the mood. Like, if he'd been drunk or something, I'd have figured he had more ambition than ability. But seeing as how he was sober, I figured he was just exhausted and needed resuscitation. Which I gave him.

And sure enough, after a while I got him to respond. I began to tickle and tease him, scratch and flick him with the tips of my fingers. Then to sort of stroke and massage him.

"Yeah," he gasped. "That's just great. Keep it up."

So I kept it up. After a while, though, I said, "You sure you don't have anything else in mind? You just want me to keep on fondling you this way?"

"Yeah," he gasped. "Please."

Well! I mean, even in Denaquid, Maine, we have public libraries. With books about sex. And I'd read them all. So even without pretending to be an expert, I could guess what Sam's problem was. One of his problems, that is. Namely, he'd been alone too long.

I mean, according to books I'd read, it's normal and natural for a young boy to play around by himself, if you know what I mean. The books said one hundred per cent-not ninety-nine point nine but one hundred per cent-of normal young boys play by themselves.

Even after they got to be adolescents and young men, all the books said, many or most like to have fun by themselves, in addition to having fun in the company of females, if possible. And all the books said this was just fine, that all the old superstitions about ruining their mental or physical health was so much nonsense. But the books also said that after a while-a long or a short while, depending-boys should start having fun with girls.

Which heaven knows makes sense. Like, girls like to have fun too, no matter how much they protest when some boy first shoves his hand into their blouse or under their skirt.

So after a while, the books said, a guy starts having fun with girls as well as by himself. And then, for the most part, he gets all of his fun in cooperation with girls. Which is how things should be, it seems to me.

I mean, why should a boy play by himself when the world is full of millions of girls who'd like to play with him?

But Sam, I figured, was one of the minority group, statistically speaking, who played alone so long that they got so they preferred playing alone. And even if they were with a girl, they preferred having her just touch and stroke them, the way they might touch and stroke themselves if they were alone. The way Sam had had me do since four a.m.

Poor men, I thought. Poor Sam. Don't they realize there are heaps of things a boy and girl can do together that are lots more fun than a boy can have alone? Or than a girl can have alone, for that matter. Because plenty of girls-all girls, in fact think about boys doing sexy things with them. And when there's no boy around to touch or stroke them, girls just naturally touch and stroke themselves.

What a waste, I thought. What a waste of time, when life is so short! Boys lying in bed thinking about stroking girls, and girls lying in bed thinking about being stroked by boys, and all in separate beds. Sad.

Meanwhile, I kept on fondling Sam, and Sam began to gasp in appreciation.

"Sam," I said coyly. "Suppose I roll over on my back and you roll over on top of me and...."

"No!" gasped Sam. "Keep on stroking."

So I did. For a while. Then I stopped. "Sam," I said, "why don't we...."

"No!" cried Sam. "Touch me just a little more!"

"I won't," I said, and I pulled back my hands.

"Please!" bleated Sam.

"I won't touch you," I said. "Heck, you can touch yourself as well as I can."

"It's not the same," gasped Sam. "Having a girl touch me is-well, different. More exciting."

I threw back the sheet. "Okay, Sam. If you think all a girl can do is touch you where you want to be touched-where you can touch yourself, for Pete's sake-I'll show you something a girl can do that you can't."

And I moved until I was sitting on his legs. One of his legs, that is. I wriggled until I was comfortable, real comfortable, with his leg pressed against me where I liked being pressed. Then I leaned forward and kissed him. On the stomach.

"There," I said a moment later. "You can't kiss yourself on the stomach, can you?"

"No," gasped Sam. "Oh, no!"

I kissed him some more. A long, lingering kiss. Then I stopped and drew back. Waited a moment, then bent and kissed him again. This time I kind of nuzzled him, biting real gentle, nibbling all around his stomach. And then, when I could feel him begin to renct too strongly, I drew back.

I waited a moment or two, then bent and kissed him again. With open-mouthed, pulling kisses now. I kept on kissing him until once again I felt him start to throb a bit too fast.

Then I drew back again. "Like that?" I asked.

"Oh, yes!" gasped Sam.

"Could anybody but a girl thrill you as much?" I queried.

"No," moaned Sam. "Kiss me more, huh?"

I bent my head, but I didn't kiss him. This time I just grazed his stomach with my tongue. North side, South side, West side and East side. And then the middle.

I stopped just in time-just before Sam's gasps turned into shouts.

"Want more?" I asked teasingly. "Yes!" pleaded Sam.

"Okay." I said. "I'll count to ten, to give you time to cool off a little. One, two...." And I counted through ten, all the time with Sam pleading for me to kiss him right away.

At the stroke of ten I bent my head, lips formed smoke-ring fashion-though I don't think it looks nice for girls to smoke-and pulled at him deeply with a kiss, my tongue sliding in a circle on his flesh.

I kept on kissing him that way, rocking my head, my lips holding firmly, my tongue tantalizing.

Sam began to grunt and gasp in earnest.

I thought about pulling back, but decided against it. Sam was too excited-truth to tell, so was I; the sliding pressure of his leg had stirred me up pretty good.

So instead of pulling back I went forward, my lips sliding on his hot flesh. All the way I pressed, choked with emotion, and yet further, and still further.

And then just a bit more, until I was in a position where if I'd decided to clamp my teeth together I could have hurt Sam as he'd never been hurt before. But I didn't, I just pressed my lips against his body and worked my own body like mad against the hardness of his leg.

And Sam reacted. Like I knew he was going to. Gasping, writhing, jerking spasmodically and moaning.

For a long, long while. After an even longer while, I drew back. "How was that?" I asked, gasping a bit myself.

"Good," he said. Real good." Then he sighed and fell asleep.

Me, I slept too.

Until an hour later, when Sam awoke and wanted to play another round-of the same game, believe it or not!

I obliged him.

After that we both slept until noon.

At which time Sam awoke and began to talk.

And what an interesting if shocking discussion it was!

"Chick," said Sam, when we'd both awakened around noon and kind of slithered together nakedly to be friendly and companionable. "Chick," he said, "you have a great future ahead of you in the big city, if you play your cards right."

I asked him what he meant.

"Chick, a few years ago I was a stranger to New York. Yes, hard though it may be for you to believe, I was once a rube and a hick in the big city. And only a few years ago."

"Imagine that," I said, thinking he was still pretty much of a rube and a hick so far as I could see, but keeping quiet about it.

"Yep. Time was I thought I could take the big town by storm. Me and my Speed Graphic. I was am-a photographer, you know."

"Do tell," I said, not a bit interested in Sam's career but pretending I was for business reasons.

"Correct. I figured all I had to do was snap pix of fires, floods, riots and other disasters, and right off the big papers would fight for my services. Fate decreed otherwise. Wherever I went, peace and tranquillity reigned. I was like a walking disaster-in reverse."

"How awful," I said.

"Correct. Fires broke out just after I and my camera had left the scene. Westchester had a flood an hour after I drove back to Manhattan. A riot broke out in Sheridan Square ten minutes after I'd packed up my camera and gone home."

"Tsk, tsk," I said, stifling a yawn.

"Correct again. As a photographer, I was accident prone-in reverse. It's a knack, kid, a knack. You're born to be on scene when something worth photographing happens, or else you aren't. It's as simple as that."

"I see," I said, wondering how soon I could politely fall asleep again.

"So I said to myself, 'Sam ... Sam,' I said, "why fight it? You ain't destined to be a great news photographer. So make a buck another way. Pin down your subjects. Shoot pin-up girls.' So I did."

"And?" I said.

"Same story. The models were in great shape, my camera was on the fritz. My camera was working fine, the models had a bad day. In the flesh they looked fine, on film they looked like leftovers from Klein's basement. Bags, you know? In three months I had the biggest collection of bad pictures of sexy chicks in Manhattan. One photo spread I sold: How Not To Photograph Nudes.

"'Sam,' I told myself, 'this ain't for you. If you can't shoot 'em yourself, let others shoot 'em for you. So I opened a studio uptown, West Side. It made money. I opened another studio East Side. It cleaned up. I opened this joint in the Village. Cash just poured in!"

"How nice," I said, feeling my eyes begin to close with sleep.

"Correct. What I couldn't do for myself, I could do for other people. Namely, give them something good to photograph. And what's more good than naked girls, I ask you?"

"Naked boys?" I said-but to myself.

"Nothin'. Give the public naked girls and they flock in. I don't make it hard for them. They got a camera, it costs 'em five bucks to get in, five bucks an hour. They ain't got a camera, I rent 'em one: three bucks an hour more. Film extra. And what've I got today? A goin' business, that's what. Know why?"

"Men like to look at naked girls," I said.

"No. I mean yes, partly. But mostly it proves I got good business sense. You catch?"

"Right," I said, fighting to keep my eyes open.

"I see a demand-for naked girls-I supply that demand, and the money rolls in. Clean, legit money. I make money, my girls make money. Could anything be more fair?"

"No," I said. "I'm real happy. I made eighty-ni....

I mean, I made a few dollars myself last night."

"Kid," said Sam, "I was meaning to talk to you about that. You got youth, vitality. Me, I got bills to pay, rent to meet, old age starin' me in the face. Kid, how about you keepin' ten bucks?"

I went cold all of a sudden.

"Hey!" I said. "I worked for that money. That's my money. I'm going to keep it. That is, if ... "

"If is right, kid. Your bread is now in my safe. Couple of hours ago when you were sacked out I put it there so it'd be safe. But kid, because I like you, I'm gonna give you ten bucks all for yourself."

I thought about that.

"I'll scream," I said.

"So scream, kid. The neighbors I got they enjoy hearing a broad scream."

"I'll go to the cops," I said.

'So go." I pay off; you don't. I just hope they don't kick you too hard in the boobs once they get to workin' you over."

"You're-you're a monster!" I gasped. "And a crook!"

Sam smiled. "Those words are music to my ears. All my life I've wanted to be a monster and a crook. Now I am one. I can't tell you how happy it makes me!"

I just lay there. And seethed. Here I'd thought I'd finally started making big money, and all the time I was being victimized!

"I'll never pose in your rotten photo studio again!" I told him.

"Kid," said Sam, yawning, "that'd be a mistake. Next session I'll let you keep half the tips you make.

Fair enough? And listen, kid, I can put you wise to makin' big money during the day. All I get is ten per cent. And you-you get in the movies I"

"What kind of movies?" I asked, knowing the answer already, I thought.

"Exciting movies, kid. And you don't have to invest money in costumes."

"On account of I won't be wearing anything in the scenes I make?"

"Correct. Oh, maybe a fig leaf here, a pastie or two there," he said, poking me in the appropriate places with his fat finger. "But that stuff the producer supplies. And these are legit movies, kid: art for art's sake. Not stag movies, kid: just legit nudies."

"Why not stag movies?" I asked.

"'Cause the town's a bit hot right now, kid. Week or two, things'll straighten out. Or the boys will set up shop in Jersey. Meanwhile, you'll be makin' just nudies. Not as much dough, but it's art. You'll be famous. Few months time guys all over the country will be leerin' at your boobs on the silver screen. Your nipples will be known from Key West to San Diego."

I gasped. What a wonderful prospect! Only a few days in the big city, and already I was a movie star. Almost, anyway.

Sam made some phone calls while I made breakfast-he had a whole studio apartment set up back of the photo studio, I guess I forgot to mention. Then he gave me my ten dollars, plus a ten-dollar advance on my earnings that night, and T went out and bought a tight-fitting dress at Klein's, which is a big department store near the Village. I just left my home made dress in the fitting room.

Then, following instructions Sam had written down for me, I took a subway to the Bronx. I was real excited the whole trip. I mean, I'd read so much about crime on New York subways, I thought maybe I'd be ravished en route. Nothing happened, though. Except I got to the Bronx.

All I knew about the Bronx was that it was where they'd invented the Bronx cheer. And I could see why. I mean, you can have the Bronx! It's a dump!

I found the address Sam had given me without any trouble, and a short while later I was talking to Louis Lynx, the famous nudie movie producer. At least Sam had told me he was famous; I wouldn't know. They don't show nudie movies in Denaquid.

Mr. Lynx was a tiny, thin shrimp of a guy, with watery eyes and a bald head. He had a deep voice, though, and I've read that men with deep voices are very virile.

"Sharon," he said, shaking my hand and peering down at my breasts while he licked his lips, "Sam has told me quite a bit about your talents. I expect great things from you."

"On the silver screen?" I asked, my heart fluttering.

"On my casting couch," he said, unfastening his belt.

So for the next couple of hours we didn't talk much about movies. We just sexed it up on Mr. Lynx's casting couch. He was a lot more virile than Sam, I must say, but still in a passive sort of way.

I mean, what he liked best was to just lie on his back while I did all the work. All the kissing, and all the bouncing up and down, and most of the fondling and stroking.

Maybe he's just tired, I thought. Being a movie producer is supposed to be an exhausting business.

Finally we took a shower-together, which was a lot of fun-and then we dried ourselves and put our clothes on, and Mr. Lynx talked about my career.

"I just put a pic in the can," he said, lighting up a little cigar. "I'm between pix right now. But I'm itching to start on a new one; once I get the right story.

My heart just sank, I can tell you! I mean, I'd read a lot about movie making, and I knew how long it takes to get a production started even after a producer has the story. He has it rewritten and rewritten, and then he has a treatment made, and then a screenplay from the treatment, and then he has that rewritten, and then he signs his stars and rents studio space and gets a director and cameraman and a bank to finance the production and so on. It takes months!

"So," said Mr. Lynx, relighting his cigar. "I'll give Dagobert-my writer-a ring this afternoon, tell him to get right to work."

Well! Mr. Lynx had sure stream-lined the moviemaking process.

"Uh, who's going to direct my movie?" I asked.

"I am. I'm also the cameraman. The unions hate me."

"Well, I hate unions," I said, to ingratiate myself.

"Good for you," said Mr. Lynx. "See you here tomorrow morning. Get here at seven-thirty, so you can memorize your lines before we start shooting."

And he showed me out. The rest of the day passed in a whirl, I can tell you! I spent the afternoon sexing up Sam, and the evening posing for his shutter nuts. But I hardly paid attention, I was so excited about my new career.