Chapter 6
As the two photographers approached the Barton Building, Bill noticed his own nervousness, feeling an uneasy restless sensation in the pit of his stomach, and he wished that they had stopped for a quick drink before encountering the man they had come to meet. Allan, on the other hand, managed to maintain his usual breezy self-confidence.
"Are you scared, kid?" he demanded as the two of them mounted the steps of the impressive building. "You look a little green around the gills."
"Allan, you mean we are actually going to meet the guy who owns the building? I can't believe it."
"Not to worry," replied Allan. "I sold some shots to Bart for his personal collection when he visited Saigon last year. And he told me then that I should come and see him if I ever got anything he could use in his magazine. It's hard to believe, but when I called him the other day, he remembered who I was and told his secretary to give us an appointment. By the way, he likes to be called 'Chris' and not 'Mr. Barton'. Part of his image, I guess, but the guy really is friendly."
"And he made all of his money from that magazine?" inquired Bill, as they climbed the long marble steps to the front door.
"Not by a long shot! The magazine only started five years ago and he was already a success from his motion pictures. When it comes to skin flicks, .Chris is number one in the business and always has been. But it was the magazine that made him his first million."
The two friends passed through the glass doors into a carpeted spacious lobby. Behind a splendid chestnut desk sat what Bill decided was the best-looking receptionist in captivity, a tall striking blonde with a classical face and figure. She flashed them a friendly smile and the two men identified themselves.
"Yes, Mr. Roberts is expecting you. Could you take the elevator to the fourth floor please?"
The interior of the elevator was decorated with photographs from Roberts' magazine, most of them saucy, scantily-clad girls whose faces and bodies Bill remembered from copies of previous editions. The office on the fourth floor was a typical editorial room in many respects, with drafting boards, filing cabinets and editorial assistants running from desk to desk with long galley sheets and stacks of photographs. But unlike the staff of a typical magazine, most of Roberts' employees were girls, mostly under thirty, and one was more glamorous than the next.
"This guy has a rough life," muttered Allan under his breath.
They were intercepted by Roberts' private secretary, a willowy luscious redhead wearing a see-through blouse and practically non-existent bra.
"Chris will see you in his office," she informed them, welcoming the two visitors with a warm smile. "Will you come this way?"
"I'll cum any way you want, honey," responded Allan, ignoring Bill's warning glance. But the secretary merely giggled and led them into Roberts' office.
The master of the Roberts empire was a short, bald-headed man in his early fifties, and as he circled his desk to shake hands with the two younger men, Bill could see clearly that he was a human dynamo type of man who would be planning new projects and chasing skirts until the day he died. Like most successful businessmen, Roberts possessed an outgoing, friendly personality, and he quickly put Bill and Allan at their ease.
"Grab a chair, gents, and let's hear what's on your minds. Allan, let me see now, it's been a year now since we've seen each other. Glad to know that you got out of Vietnam in one piece."
"Thanks, Chris," replied Allan easily. "Did you hear about our award for the best documentary of the year?"
"I did indeed although I never got a chance to see it. A friend of mine caught it at a film makers' convention last winter and said that it was the sexiest documentary the Army ever produced. He was wondering how you got it by the military censor. My congratulations!"
"Thanks. I did the film processing and special effects, but the real credit goes to my colleague. Bill, who directed the sequences and ran the camera."
"Where'd you work before the Army got you, Bill?" asked Robert with genuine interest. "Out on the West Coast?"
"Nowhere, Mr. Roberts," replied Bill, a little embarrassed. "That is, nowhere in films. I worked in my father's junkyard and studied film making at night."
"Tremendous! Sounds like you should be working for me. By the way, the name's Chris. Listen, what are you boys doing now that you're out of the Army?"
"We're setting up our own studio," Allan explained. "And we want to do some independent films. But we took some stills the other day that you might be able to use in the magazine. Like to take a look?"
"Always happy to see some new material. I've been going out of my mind trying to find some decent stuff these days. My photographers all seem to have gone cross-eyed and the models all look like Grandma Moses."
Bill placed the two manila envelopes on Roberts' desk, and extracted the photographs of Val. Chris thumbed through them carefully, nodding and dividing them up into several piles as he sorted.
"That's good ... I like that ... too much light here, I'm afraid ... hmm, I like that pose ... good-looking model...." he commented. "You want to watch one thing, boys. Pussy hair is now okay as far as the law is concerned and we've been publishing it for almost a year, but you shouldn't be able to see the cunt mouth. We'd get an obscenity suit if we ran something like that. Next year maybe, but this country is still not Denmark. But these are fine pictures and we can crop the ones that show too much. I think I can use'm. What else have you got?"
With a feeling of pride, Bill opened the second envelope and carefully withdrew the pictures they had taken of Sandy.
"Jesus Christ! Who's this hot little piece?" exclaimed the publisher. "This is the best stuff I've seen in a long time!"
"It's my girlfriend, Sandy." Bill explained. "This is the first time she's ever posed for professional work."
"She's outstanding," enthused Robert as he studied the photography intently. "First, the camera work is perfect and very subtle. But then, with a model like this you could hardly go too far wrong. Allan, have you fooled around with these photos or does she really look like this?"
"Honest to God, Chris," Allan vowed. "All we did was take the pictures and develop them. That's what she really looks like. And she wants to be a school teacher."
"She'd be wasting her time. I'd put her on my payroll immediately if I thought I could get her away from Bill. And so would anyone else in his right mind. Listen, I can use all of this, if you're willing to sell. You know I pay the best rates in town."
"That's fine, agreed Allan. Remember to give us a good by-line as the photographers."
"I'll do better than that. I'm going to have my copy department do a brief story on the two of you to go with the pictures, saying how you're a couple of young combat photographers trying to make a go as independent motion picture makers. A lot of our readers are military and they like to read about this kind of thing. Now, tell me, what are your plans for the immediate future?"
"Well," said Bill. "They're a little vague at the moment. Our studio is almost ready and we thought we'd try to do a few advertising shorts to build up some kind of a reputation in the business. Eventually we'd like to do some feature-length films, but that takes cash and we haven't got it at the moment."
"It takes more than cash," interrupted Roberts. "It takes equipment."
"Courtesy of the United States Army," explained Allan with a smile. "We find ourselves adequately provided with equipment. Don't ask me how."
"I won't," laughed Roberts, "because I couldn't bear, to see an ex-sergeant blush. But listen, seriously, maybe we can work something out. Have you got that girl under a contract of some kind?"
"Well, she and I are going to get married as soon as we get our feet on the ground," answered Bill. "I don't think we need a contract. Why?"
"Because if you did a film-or rather, if we did a film-with Sandy as the female lead, we'd be half way home. I'm thinking about some kind of co-production. I'll want to direct", as usual, but you, Bill, could act as assistant director and cameraman. Allan here could handle the lights, extras, sound and film processing, with a couple of my people to assist. As long as I get a certain amount of control over what goes on, I might be willing to gamble a little dough on a joint venture."
"Might?" inquired Allan.
"Might, if Sandy playing the lead is part of the deal. With that upper-class face and fantastic body, we could make one hell of a fine picture."
"A smoker?" Bill asked nervously.
"Sure, what the hell else? Look, let me tell you something about the economics of the film industry. Out on the West Coast, you've got a half a dozen major companies making regular full-length feature films. They are either losing money hand over fist or so close to bankruptcy that the board of directors has a full-time ulcer specialist. Why? Okay, you spend four or five million bucks on a big film and that's cutting a few corners here and there. It takes you about two years, as a minimum between the time your writers go to work on an idea and the time when it opens in the theatre around the corner. During that time, the public's taste may have changed completely and you could be left with a four million dollar white elephant that nobody wants. Your money is tied up for years and it's getting hard to find people who've got four million dollars they feel like risking on the drooping boobs of some has-been actress. If you're lucky, your profit could be five to ten percent on your investment." Roberts paused to let his arguments sink in and to light a cigar.
"On the other hand, take a smoker. You need about eight or nine weeks from start to finish. The public's taste in sex doesn't change that much and it ain't going to change at all in that short a time. It costs you fifty to seventy-five thousand to make and you can sell it for maybe twice that. Someone else worries about the distribution and your profit is tax-free. The distributor takes all the risks as far as the law is concerned because it's not illegal to make a smoker, just to show it. But even the distributor doesn't mind because with good legal help he never goes to jail and his profit is big enough to pay off a couple of cops and a fine once in a while. Convinced?"
"Convinced," admitted Allan. "Think we can get Sandy to go along, Bill?"
"It's a problem," confessed the younger man. "Sandy's come a long way since we got back, but we'd have to handle it gently. She doesn't even know we're going to publish these pictures."
"She'll blow her stack, but she's done that before and gotten over it," Allan commented. "You thought she'd never strip for a camera and she did. I think I know of a way we can get her to do the movie as well."
"Do whatever you have to, gents," insisted Roberts, "but get her squared away. I'll put some writers to work on a story and we'll get together in about a week's time to sign the contract and think about the details. Now, how about a drink?"
My God, it's getting hot, thought Sandy as she paced through the empty house waiting for the others to return. Val was off visiting with friends while Allan and Bill were meeting that important publisher, Roberts, to discuss the sale of the photography they had taken. For part of the morning, Sandy had successfully invented jobs to keep herself busy. She had written out checks for a few miscellaneous bills, dusted the office, and swept out all the bedrooms and picked up all of Val's clothes and hung them in the closet.
There was an unusual sensation in her stomach and legs, a feeling Sandy could not precisely identify. She felt hot, slightly irritable, restless and generally out of sorts. Settling herself in a chair, she closed her eyes for a moment to relax and found that her mind was immediately filled with images of herself and Bill making love. So that was it! This was not a cold coming on, or the beginning of her period, but simple old-fashioned lustiness. She smiled, in the emptiness of the silent house, thinking of how much she had changed. A month ago, she had been as Allan had expressed it-Miss Goody-Goody. Now she was a bitch with hot pants who could barely make it through the day without having her desires satisfied. She was fully as bad as Val, she was forced to admit, and maybe worse, since Val was at least open and honest about her sexuality.
Certainly the life they were leading was calcualted to keep them all in a state of high sexual tension. Bill's physical needs were tremendous and he often made love to her three or four times a day. In fact, when their work was done and their evening meal eaten, the four of them had fallen into the habit of smoking marijuana to excite their lusts and then stripping to the skin for an "anything-goes" session before bed.
So far, at least, something very deep and very feminine inside of her made it impossible for Sandy to enjoy the sight of Bill screwing Val. She had given up being jealous, but there was something about the idea which she still resented. And this was quite unreasonable, she reminded herself, since she was enormously excited whenever Allan climbed on top of her and Bill watched him fucking her half silly.
Where would all this lead? She had made a dozen resolutions to herself and to the others that she would no longer be available for these depraved activities, and each time, she would become excited and find herself plunging into even more obscene sexual games. Perhaps, she told herself, it was time to start facing some facts about herself. The long years of purity and chastity had only disguised the fact that she was a very highly sexed young woman.
Well, one thing a sexually liberated woman did not have to do on a blistering hot day was to sit around in heavy clothing. She jumped to her feet and headed for the doorway. Where was that bikini?
Entering the bedroom she now shared with Bill, she threw open the window to let in some air and began searching her dresser for the bathing suit. She located it beneath a pile of underwear, but as she was shutting the drawer, a movement outside the window caught her eye. Without turning her head, she observed that their elderly next-door neighbor was watching her from his bathroom window. As she rose to her feet, bikini in hand, he ducked behind the edge of the window, but she knew he was still spying on her.
You dirty old man, she thought. Two months ago, I would have called the police on you. Now, well, it doesn't seem to make quite so much difference. Have yourself a ball.
Feeling incredibly wicked and tingling all over, Sandy pulled her heavy black sweater up over her head, revealing her full bouncing breasts and extended nipples. After running her hands happily over her excitedly swollen breasts, she loosened the belt on her slacks and eased them down over her hips, together with her panties. Then, naked and trembling with excitement, she stepped to the window, making no attempt to cover herself, and pretended to scrutinize the sky for signs of rain. The cooling breeze blew over her ripe young body, making her shiver with pleasure.
When she felt she had allowed the old-timer as much looking as his heart could stand, she slipped into the bikini, suddenly possessed with the idea of taking another glance at the nude photographs Bill and Allan had taken of her that day at the beach.
Returning to the downstairs, Sandy flipped on the darkroom lights and opened the file cabinet where Allan stored finished prints. With a shock, she discovered that the manila envelope which had contained the nude photographs of her was now empty. Who could have taken them? Why?
As she perched on a darkroom stool and wondered what had become of them, she heard the front door open and Val's cheerful voice sing out, "Anybody home?"
"In the darkroom," Sandy called back.
"Hi, Sandy!" the other girl greeted her as she entered the room. "What's up? Are the men back yet?"
As Val entered, it suddenly occurred to Sandy what had happened to her photographs.
"They must have taken them along!" she cried in a strangled voice.
"What are you talking about, honey?" inquired Val.
"The photographs they took of me that day on the beach. Allan and Bill must have taken them to show that publisher!"
Val looked uncomfortable for a moment, standing on one foot and wrapping one shapely leg around the other as she tried to decide what to say.
"Sandy, listen ... it's like this...." she began.
"Oh, Jill, I was afraid of this," cried Sandy. "I know they were beautiful shots, but if that Mr. Roberts decides to publish them, I'll be ruined. Suppose my father sees them?"
"Now Sandy, honey, you can't live your life according to what your mother and father would like you to do. In the first place, it's not really very likely that your father's going to pick up a copy of Mr. Roberts' magazine, is it? From what you've told me about your parents, it doesn't seem that they're the type to sit around reading skin magazines. And even if they should see them, so what? You've got a man and you're over twenty-one. And if these photos do sell, then your man will be well on his way to success. And you'll have given him his start, see? It'll be quite an honor to be published in that magazine, and you know how much it'll mean to Bill."
"Oh Val, I'm sorry to be such a worrier, but my life is changing so fast."
"And it will probably change a little more," commented the brown-haired girl mysteriously. "Come on, let's get some lunch ready for those two men of ours."