Chapter 6
Rita read the letter again, folded it carefully and replaced it in the envelope which she placed behind the clock on the marble mantelpiece. The envelope bore a New York postmark. It was the second letter she had received from Matt since she had arrived in London. The contents were disappointing. He was unavoidably detained for a further two or three weeks, Matt wrote, but the rent of his Chelsea apartment was paid several months in advance and she had no cause for anxiety, nor any problems other than convincing Travis Caufield of her artistic ability.
Rita shrugged. She hadn't even seen Caufield yet. The kettle in the elaborate kitchen was making shrill whistling sounds. Rita sauntered from the lounge, made coffee, and ran a hot bath. By ten-thirty she was on her way to Soho, traveling on the subway, wide-eyed with interest and feeling acutely apprehensive.
The young colored secretary who showed Rita into Travis Caufield's dingy office had a pair of boobs like melons. No bra. Her skirt was so short Rita could see dark wisps of pubic hair straggling from the legholes of white satin panties. The outline of the girl's cunt was plainly visible. Her jaws were busy on a wad of gum. When Rita asked for Caufield the secretary indicated a closed door with a jerky movement of her head. She studied Rita cynically. She was attractive, her skin a light brown color, her eyes large and luminous-and shrewdly calculating.
"He's expectin' yo, honey," she said. "If he likes you you'll be there an hour, if not, straight out on your arse. I'm goin' to lunch early, so you won't be disturbed."
She laughed, smirking, revealing large white teeth. Rita shrugged. She knocked on the door. A bored voice told her to enter. The man seated behind a massive desk was younger than she'd expected, and he was a Negro, black as the ace of spades, a fat, prosperous-looking character chewing on a slim cigar the same color as his expressionless face. A hard bastard, Rita thought. Mild interest flickered in his coldly appraising eyes. He nodded, extending a broad hand. Rita gave him the note from Matt. Caufield tore the envelope open, read the message, grunted, tossed the note on his desk, and leaned back.
"So you want to be in show business," he said. "Half the big names out of work, and you want to make the grade? Pop singer, huh? Well, there's more to it than exercising your tonsils, kid. Matt says you've got a voice. Okay, let's hear it."
He quit the desk, crossed the room to a beat-up piano, played a few notes. Rita knew the number, but she hesitated. Caufield shifted the cigar to the other side of his flabby mouth. "All right," he said irritably. "So what are you waiting for? Sing."
He commenced playing. Rita started. After a few bars Caufield slammed the piano lid down.
"Cool it," he told her. "Stop wasting my time."
"You don't like my voice, Mister Caufield?" Rita seemed surprised, indignant.
Caufield shrugged. "You can warble," he admitted. "But so can a bloody canary—and who wants an Irish canary these days? The kids who buy records want something different. You don't have it, kid. You'll never make a pop star so long as you've got a hole in your arse."
Rita looked shattered.
Caufield shifted the cigar again. "Look," he said. "I get five hundred girls in here every week. They all think they're star quality. Only one in ten thousand ever makes it. You need a gimmick, something besides looks and shape. How do you feel about stripping?"
"Stripping! Look, I didn't come over here to be a bloody stripper. I thought—Matt Brent said-Gee, I want to be a singer, or an actress."
Caufield shrugged. "Okay. So maybe later on I'll get you a break. Right now the trick is to get started. I've got contracts, and I can probably get you into one of the Soho clubs, but it won't be easy. Every scrubber who shows up in London thinks she's got what it takes to get into the game." He waved the cigar, scattering ash. "Like I said, it won't be easy. But with your body there's a chance, and as a stripper you meet people, kid—people who matter."
"But, Mister Caufield—a stripper. I don't know—"
"What's wrong with taking your clothes off?
Don't tell me you're a bloody virgin as well as a canary."
"Do me a favor. Look, I don't mind taking my clothes off if it'll pay the rent. It's just that I'm, well, I'm so disappointed I could puke. Matt told me you'd fix everything."
"Matt doesn't know the score. Everybody wants to be a star. Look, suppose you start as a stripper, maybe throw in a song or two to set the right mood, a sort of novelty act. Then, if they like you— It could lead to anything, maybe even a part in a West End revue. It does happen."
"You really think it might work out? Oh, I'll do anything—"
"You'll probably have to, kid. This is a tough business. But there's compensations. Naturally I'll expect you to make it worth my while."
"I don't have any money."
"I wasn't talking about money, sweetheart. Without somebody like me behind you, you're nothing. Remember that. Put yourself in my hands and I'll do what I can, but-"
"I'll be ever so grateful, Mister Caufield."
"The name is Travis. All right, kid. We've got a deal. Let's see what you've got."
He gestured for her to raise her dress. He wanted it higher, then off altogether.
"I want to see how you stack up," he told her. "The way you'll finish up on stage. The right attitude and approach is essential. You're a natural, Rita. You'll find stripping will come easy after the first couple of times. Learn to play to the audience, baby, and you'll have no problems. You'll be independent, and you'll make money.
Not a fortune, but— That appeal to you?"
"I'm listening, Travis."
"Good. Then take the dress off."
Rita obeyed, wriggling her hips and working the tight dress up over her quivering breasts and finally over her head. She wore flesh-colored pantyhose, no bra. Her breasts stood out firm and inviting, succulently enormous. Caufield licked his thick lips. Rita postured, causing her boobs to bounce and shake. She sucked her belly in and out, protruding her pelvis, shaking her head. Sweat appeared on Caufield's forehead. His black face glistened. The cigar went out.
"All right," he told her. "Cool it. Now peel off the rest."
Rita hesitated, then smiled, kicked her shoes off, pushed the panties down over her smooth hips, rolled the stockings down, and hauled the crumpled garment over her feet. She stood arrogantly naked, smirking, hands on hips.
Caufield sucked in his breath sharply. "Very nice," he remarked. He moved toward the door, locked it, flipped his cigar butt into the waste basket, leaned against the desk, and fingered the front of his pants.
"You've got the body," he admitted. "But setting you up won't be easy. It's up to you, kid, how bad you want the job. Not just me, understand? You'll be expected to keep the management happy, and I'll want more than my ten per cent cut. You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. You dig?"
Rita nodded. She pivoted, turned completely round, exhibiting the exciting fullness of her bottom, then stood with legs slightly apart. Caufield swallowed noisily. He clutched his penis through his pants.
"I guess we understand one another," he said. "How are you in the clinches, baby?"
"Try me," Rita answered softly. "If I'm going to be a stripper I'm going to be the best. But remember, it's only a start. I'll expect something better."
Caufield nodded, his hot gaze on her tits. Rita cupped the proud mounds, bunching them together. Caufield swore, jerking his fly undone to let his thick penis flop out. He studied Rita's reaction. Apart from a slight flaring of the nostrils and a twitching round her mouth she betrayed no obvious emotion. Caufield grinned as she moved toward him.
"You've been around," he stated. "Most of the scrubbers who come in here don't know what a hard prick's for. At least that's the impression they give. You'd be surprised how some of them perform. But you—you're just hard-faced enough to make a success. I'll look out for you, kid. You've got the makings of a sweet fuck. I knew that the moment you walked through the door. Get hold of this, canary. I think that's what I'll call you. Or, maybe not. Take hold of it, honey. It's big and it's black, but that doesn't scare you, kid, eh? You like black cock, right?"
"I like cock," Rita told him bluntly. "Bigger the better. I wasn't raised in any convent. How do you want me, Travis?"
She reached for his stiffening penis, curled her fingers round it, felt it swell and throb. She'd handled bigger tools, but— There was a tightness in her anus and a pulsing ache in her quim. She had an idea that screwing with Travis Caufield was likely to prove a violent and sensational experience. He thrust his corpulent roll into the funnel formed by her fingers, grabbed her, mauled her buttocks, lowered his head, and mouthed her tits.
"On the desk," he mumbled thickly. Abruptly he lifted her up and sat her on the edge of the desk, laid her back and got between her dangling legs. Rita expected him to kiss her cunt and hoped he would, but he was impatient to sink his prick. He jerked her thighs roughly apart, pulled her bodily toward his jutting knob and butted ferociously at her warm gash, ramming until his hard tool forced an entry and immediately abandoned all control. Groaning and glaring, straining, he assaulted her dark passage with berserk frenzy, fucking callously, indifferent to Rita's discomfort, slogging into her without consideration or restraint or finesse, a black animal, all prick and lust and clawing, squeezing hands. Rita, jerking and panting, gripped the edge of the table fiercely, and smiled as she co-operated, striving to hasten his climax and her own, commencing to moan and thrash about as his crudeness brought her along rapidly to the brink of shuddering orgasm.
Rita stood in front of the closet mirror and critically inspected the reflection of her body, twisting this way then that, pawing her naked flesh. She had taken to stripping like a duck to water. All right, so she wasn't star material. But sooner or later, she was convinced, her lucky break would come. Meanwhile she was eating regularly and her routine at the Starlite Club was already attracting attention.
As a lover Caufield was crude but satisfactory. He had a key to Matt's apartment and dropped in at all hours. Rita was grateful to him for getting her a start. In the short while she had been at the club she had come to realize just how difficult it was for a girl without influential friends. There were other men, of course. Caufield knew about them—in fact he often arranged a private screwing session if he thought it might help Rita's career.
Rita hefted her breasts. They were getting even bigger. Her creamy-white skin was traced with faint blue veins, the nipples jutting enormously, elongating and hardening as she toyed with them. Her body was excitingly voluptuous without superfluous fat. her belly almost flat—until she extended it—her thighs long and supple, well rounded, flanks hollow, hips swelling seductively into deliciously mature and prominent buttocks, sexy ovals that shivered and jounced when she walked. They liked her arse at the club. One man regularly sent her roses—a reminder of the night when somebody stuck an artificial rose in the crack of her arse as she danced, and the luscious cheeks nipped the long stem and held it throughout the rest of her act. Canary, the name Caufield had given her stuck, although the first time she sang somebody suggested they change it to Crow.
Rita fluffed the thick black hair covering her mound. She was obliged to clip the silken bush to prevent straggling ends from showing past the ridiculously inadequate triangle of silk that merely drew attention to her quim at the end of her performance. The law required a minimum of covering even though her arse was bare. She stubbornly resisted all attempts to persuade her to shave her minge.
She spread her legs, parted the dense growth and examined her split, separating the fleshy folds. Her cunt had become tremendously enlarged and elongated, the vulva thickened, protruding audaciously. Rita smiled, remembering the avid lips that had slobbered over it, the clammy hands and turgid pricks that had mauled and fucked it. It was no ornament—a real asset, that hairy gash, the key that would open many doors and, eventually, the right one . . .
It was after midnight when Caufield came to the apartment. He was drunk and in a mean mood. When he kissed her the reek of whiskey on his breath was nauseatingly strong. Her repugnance needled him and he pushed Rita violently so that she sprawled on the bed. She had never seen him like that before. She felt apprehensive, but tried to relax.
Caufield undressed, fumbling and muttering. His penis was slack, his eyes bloodshot. He lifted Rita's short nightdress and immediately became tremendously aroused. He sat on the edge of the bed and insisted on kissing her, thrusting his tongue repeatedly into her mouth. Rita endured, and promptly opened her legs wide when he groped between them, wanting to get it over with and fully expecting him to pass out. He didn't seem capable of sex. She, for the moment, was indifferent.
For a while Caufield just sat there, staring at her cunt. Eventually he touched the dusky vent, then inserted a thick black finger and worked it about with uncouth vigor. Saliva bubbled at the corners of his mouth. His broad face twitched. His cock stood fully erect now, throbbing hotly against his belly, trapped as he leaned forward. Abruptly he slumped and sprawled across her legs. Rita thought he had blacked out, but presently he raised his head and gazed into the close proximity of her vulnerable crotch. Suddenly, he squashed his face against the warm hairiness of her cunt and began tonguing it, avidly exploring the moist fissure and simultaneously forcing a hand under her hip and arse cheek, groping toward her anus. When his fingers established contact his whole gross body shuddered and he chuckled obscenely, blasting hot breath against the spittle-slick opening of her vagina. His thick lips enclosed her vulva and he sucked noisily, probing her arsehole at the same time and causing her to rear up. The surging impetus of her convulsive response splayed her quim against his adoring mouth, and as the stabbing inroads of his tongue were intensified, aggravating her clitoris, Rita's lack of interest quickly evaporated and she moaned with mounting lust. Delightful sensations gathered in her glistening cunt, and she trembled, suddenly eager for Caufield's fat black prick inside her. But he tormented her—and himself—punishing her buttocks and her anus, his broad nose sniffing excitedly, his mouth munching her palpitating furrow, licking with a fierce hunger as if trying to pluck the throbbing, swollen clitoris from the hot cavern and swallow it, clamping his lips to the vibrant recess and forcing the dark flesh inward, then gathering it into his mouth and grunting passionately as Rita's quim released pungent juices.
Rita was approaching a second emission when Caufield lifted his head and shook it as if to clear the liquor fumes from his brain. He stood up, swaying drunkenly. His solid penis stood up hard and magnificent, a bulging stalk surrounded by tufts of coarse, grey-tinged black hair. His balls were tightly bunched, the scrotum drawn up and deeply wrinkled. He clutched his cock, causing the hugely distended knob to glow purple.
"It takes a nigger to raise a stalk drunk or sober," he bragged. "I'm the greatest, kid. Damn fucking right. And you go for it, sweetheart. You want it all, eh—in your mouth, you little cocksucker, and where else, Irish canary? I'll tell you where I want it—up your bloody arse, kid. And that's where I'm going to shove it. Okay? I've wanted to screw your ring ever since I first saw you bare arsed in my office. Now you're getting it."
He recovered his balance, gripped her shoulders and tried to poke his cock at her mouth. Rita sighed. She ignored his aggressiveness and hunched forward, sexually aroused and eager to comply with whatever demands he made. She handled his genitals, kissed his cock, took the swollen glans into her mouth. She had slight misgivings about submitting to anal intercourse. Not even Mike had ever attempted to fuck her arsehole, but she knew that she would indulge Caufield's whim. Meanwhile she sucked his prick in a fervor of intoxicated sensuality, reveling in the strong odor of his torrid flesh and the sweaty testicles slapping her chin. She loved the warm spongy feel of his penis, its virility and superb male vigor. It was a powerful black animal over which she had no control, yet which responded to her every caress. And she was as fiercely abandoned, aflame with carnal anguish, all quivering cunt and jutting tits and tautly convulsed arse, craving rapturous release in the blissful ecstasy of orgasm, completely obsessed, almost demented, oblivious of everything except her own goading need and the lascivious delight derived from what she was doing.
The throbbing contact of the tremendously inflated penis filling her mouth had a hypnotizing effect. It was her fetish, the rigid symbol of her abject submission. She felt an insane compulsion to thrust her hand right up her clutching quim and tear out the churning ball of searing fury concentrated in her entrails. Grotesque fantasies clouded her seething brain. She clasped the Negro's taut buttocks convulsively and pulled his cock deeper into her mouth, sucking furiously, distraught with the insatiability of stark passion. The strong flavor of thick sperm seepage was cloying and bitter against her tongue, but Caufield withdrew before the gathering flood broke. His control was extraordinary, the more so because he was drunk. Grinning, handling his monstrous erection, he told Rita curtly to turn over. She lay on her belly, offering no argument, stubbornly resolved to endure in her own best interests.
The bed creaked as Caufield knelt. He squatted between her thighs and she shivered at his unsteady touch on her bottom, heard his swiftly indrawn breath as he parted the cheeks and distorted them, uncovering her anal pit. He lowered his head and licked the brown aperture, filled it with spittle and probed his tongue repeatedly into it, screwing the tip deep into the resilient hole. There was a tube of face cream on the nearby dressing-table. Caufield reached for it, unscrewed the cap, fumbled, dropped the tube on the rug and, retrieving it, squeezed most of the cream onto the carpet. He squirted what was left into the palm of his left hand, smeared it into the crease of Rita's arse and began working it into her anus, muttering and swearing as he rubbed and kneaded. Rita realized with a twinge of alarm that he actually intended to ravage her back passage. She wasn't really afraid, and the idea in no way disgusted her—she was merely apprehensive of the Negro in his drunken condition. Several times she tried to raise herself and twist over, but each time Caufield pushed her down impatiently. Eventually she resigned herself to whatever ordeal he was determined to inflict.
He moved down until by clasping her hips and applying leverage he caused her bottom to lift and protrude grossly. His thumbs gouged into her tender flesh, spreading her arsehole. Suddenly, he lunged, his penis ramming into the widened cleavage, the bulging knob savagely questing. Rutted flesh slick with scented cream channeled his tool into the puckered rut of her anus. Rita sighed, gasping as Caufield strained. It was suddenly unimportant whether or not Caufield buggered her. It wasn't scruples that bothered her. Physically, the notion of having a fat prick up her arse was mildly stimulating, maybe as pleasurable for her as for Caufield.
She braced herself as his great black root bored into her stubborn passage. She had an exceptionally large anus and the cream assisted Caufield's entry, but only to a marginal degree at first. Under pressure the crinkly rim yielded slightly, distended more decisively as Caufield persisted, and suddenly stretched sufficiently to admit the gouging knob, closing clamlike behind the triumphant head. Rita swore, gripped the bed covers tightly and clenched her teeth. The Negro quickly followed up his advantage, pushing resolutely, screwing his iron-hard rod fractionally deeper. Irritated by the slowness of his conquest he pried the distorted anus open round his embedded knob, thrusting both thumbs past his throbbing penis into the hole and dragging the dark rim away from his cock while continually striving to work his prick further in, and succeeding, persevering until several incites of coal-black cock blocked the clutching aperture. He rested then, laying his sweating face against Rita's back and voicing hoarse encouragement, coaxing, consoling, dominating her.
Presently he resumed, slipped both hands under her hips and clung tenaciously, undulating his buttocks with renewed determination, grunting and grimacing each time his relentless tool achieved some additional gain. The further up her anus he screwed, the less painful the assault became. Once the fiercely swollen knob was fully embedded the resilient channel more readily accepted the circumference of his penis—and the recurring sensations as it was forced into her rectum provoked a combination of dragging, aching torment and erotic stimulation that extended into her vagina and spread like wildfire through her body, flaying her carnal senses raw. Her arsehole felt as though it was being irrevocably ruptured, but as the hot friction steadily diminished pleasurable thrills and spasms compensated for the pain. Rita's thoughts concentrated on the rapidly intensifying nucleus of desire linking her anus and cunt, knowing the ordeal was almost over.
With half his bloated penis sheathed Caufield curbed the violence of his thrusts, striving to prolong the hot climax; but he was already thrashing on the brink of tempestuous orgasm, expiring in the shuddering convulsions of draining rapture, wilting, flopping forward, panting with his cheek pressed against the trembling paleness of Rita's back, her flushed flesh stifling his groans. In the final moments before his sperm load jetted he embraced her hips and dug his fingers deeply into her groin, bracing her arse against the power of his spurting lunge and molding the curve of her bottom into the hot recess of his loins.
While his cock still pumped he withdrew, quickly changed his position, heaved Rita to a kneeling posture and rammed his reeking prick directly into her gaping twat, fucked her furiously until the dregs of a second orgasm spewed sluggishly, then collapsed in a drunken stupor and lay wheezing. Rita lay passively under his gross bulk, flattened into the mattress, overwhelmed in the ecstasy of fulfillment, breathing rapidly, relaxing in the tingling contentment, lying open-mouthed, her face blank in the rich afterglow. The torrid spasms gradually dwindled, yielding to a blissful, soothing limpness, the warm saturation of fulfillment and joyous satisfaction.
When she moved Caufield toppled sideways and fell off the bed, sprawling on his back. His mouth hung open and his drooping penis descended in gentle twitching spasms closer to the white rug under his arse. He began to snore. Rita assumed a reclining pose and peered at him over the edge of the bed. She opened her mouth to speak, but realized the futility of saying anything, and closed it again. She winced. At least she knew now what it was like. Her arsehole felt big enough to bury her fist in. Drunken bastard, she thought. Fucking black swine. But she was as bad. She hadn't tried to stop him. She shrugged. What the hell? Up the arse or between the legs, what's the difference?
The next day when Caufield called her he didn't even mention the incident, but thereafter, every time he got drunk he had her in the same uncouth way. Rita didn't mind. After that first time it was relatively easy. Caufield had other interests, a lot of girls to pick from. The colored secretary was high on his list. Sometimes he brought women to the apartment. Rita always knew when he had been there by the state of her bedroom. But she didn't object. Matt had given Caufield a key. She expected Matt back any time. Meanwhile she performed twice nightly at the Starlite Club, and sometimes she actually got a chance to sing, although it was the strip routine that brought the applause. But every night was a challenge, every day another opportunity, a possibility that the phone might ring and it would be somebody important at the other end opening the door to a career.