Chapter 8

Beverly awoke to her alarm clock and within the hottest, most luxurious dream she'd ever had in her life. She was riding down Colorado Boulevard, the Queen of the Rose Bowl Parade, on a float on which her Oscar and her Emmy were portrayed in gold and white orchids. A pandemonium of cheers and applause from the curbs were drowning out the TV announcers' ability to communicate with all the

Beverly Collins fans in their homes, but it was enough to see her in color, on screen, in the parade whose theme was Beverly Collins Hits.

Some of those fans were screaming for the two Stars with Beverly on the float with her, Telly Savalas and David Frost, each of them too busy with one of her naked tits to be able to wave to the crowds on the curbs. Beverly's bosom was exposed by the Queen Victoria dress she had on, and under the very full skirt of that dress, also made of orchids, were the two men responsible more than any others for the emergence of her talents. Ron Hanratty was under there, his lovely big cock squirming all about inside her asshole, and Bobby Stanton was there with their former boss, jabbing and fucking and cumming continually with his hard little prick in her cunt.

Beverly lay there writhing in ecstasy on her bed, helping Telly and David and Rod and Bobby along with her hands until the clock's bell ran down to tiny tinklings with reduction of her orgasms. She lay there basking in the aftermath of the adulation and the pleasures till the clock had ticked two minutes past, and then she briskly rose to prepare herself for this, the second day of her life.

Rod was watching from his second floor office window as the excruciatingly lovely Linda began this business day. He scarcely noticed that more than a third of his operators were wearing skirts that day, and that, for a change, Beverly Collins was wearing some make-up.

His focus was all on Linda, in a blouse and pants now, but hardly less perfectly lovely and young as she'd been in his office the evening before, stripped to her chaste pink brassiere and moving her gloved hands in any suggestive way he suggested for him and his camera lens. Phew! That evening-and she'd said she'd be back that evening-he'd capture still more of her nearly nude upper torso and her exquisitely beautiful face on film.

With prudence, with patience, with businesslike maturity, he might in a few weeks or months have her up there posing for him naked, gloriously naked from her pink little toes to her totally kissable lips. And slowly, and carefully, in a year or two he might be fucking that perfectly dew-kissed darling virgin right there in his office every night, every night! and, who could tell, he might even make a model out of her somehow.

Anything was possible for a man like himself. All he needed for his patience was a little help, right at the moment, from Beverly Collins, who really didn't look all that bad today. In fact, she looked so good that the kid who kept the sewing machines oiled was looking at her with his lower jaw sagging open. Rod turned his gaze at once from Beverly to

Linda as she gave him a tiny wave of her hand, a tiny smile that promised she'd be there, as scheduled, to go on with her modeling career. "It's all for her own good," Rod muttered, grinning wolfishly down at her timid smile, and squeezing through his pants pocket at the large piece of meat that throbbed impatiently in his pants.

"No. No, I'm sorry. Bobby won't be performing today," Beverly said, as the gals crowded round her at the lunch wagon, trying to press ten dollar bills in her hand. "I need him all for myself today," she explained to some of the more insistent, almost irate shop girls, for on the bus Beverly had made another step in her plans. Her fans would number in the millions. Of this she was quite sure. And while Bobby would always continue to be her greatest fan, her future demanded more from him than this. He would become-or had become, since her bus ride to work-Beverly Collins bodyguard.

She'd start off with a Home Muscle Improvement course and send him to a body building gym as soon as she could afford it, but he would be her bodyguard, guarding that body against Beverly's sometimes incontrollable passions as well as against her future hysterical fans. And he'd start at his job today. And so it was Beverly said to the gals, "Nope. Not even for twenty. I need him all for myself today."

In accordance with all he'd heard hinted about it, Bobby was a man very much in love. Exhausted when he'd left Beverly's flat, he'd only been able to sleep that night after hours of tossing and turning. He had dreamt about her all night long, and of himself doing terribly perverted things to her. His first waking thought had been of her, just as his first waking action had been to reach for the stiff, aching prick in his twisted pajamas.

"No-o-o! No, you promised yourself you wouldn't!" he moaned, frantically masturbating, helplessly reliving all the hot, dirty dreams that had tortured him through the night. And then he'd lay there in his bed, panting and sweating, still feeling exhausted, vowing to call up and quit his job as soon as the mill opened up the morning.

But here he was, right there at eight o'clock and gaping at Beverly like the love-sick fool he was as she stood by the lunch wagon, lining him up for any number of sloppy old cunts that he'd have to eat. He couldn't stand to look at them, and he gazed instead at the lunch wagon girl, Linda. And, bleary-eyed and rubbing his stiff cock through his pants pocket, he said to himself, 'Shucks, I'd even do it to that dumb girl if Beverly said so.' He was grinning again as he looked back at Beverly and at the angrily lustful faces of the sewing machine operators whose tables he would soon be under, all day long.

Those sagging old bags, black and white, old and not-so-old, all looked pretty good to him, but none of them looked anywhere near as good as his Beverly. A lot of them were wearing skirts, more easily enabling him to climb down between their gnarled or fat or veined legs and be further tested by eating their nasty old cunts, but none had a skirt on like Beverly did. It was a wraparound skirt on a wraparound dress, and the dress was made of soft white material and printed with spring flowers, and the legs and the bosom and arms it revealed were made of pure satin and would be printed with Bobby's kisses that night after work if he passed all his tests that day. But the first of those tests, he learned to his utter delight, would not be a test at all.

"Come see me at my table," Beverly said from the side of her mouth to him as the employees lined up at the time clock.

Bobby was there at her table at five after eight, grinning like a fool, heart all aflutter in his belly and prick all hard in his pants. He stood before her, pointing first at himself, then at her, and when she nodded a sharp assent, he quickly glanced over his shoulder at the disgusted looks of the other operators and got down on his hands and knees.

'No panties on under her skirt! Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful!', Bobby said to himself, as he went about the luscious business of licking and sucking her cunt. He wanted to stay right there all day, but she, thinking about his possibly losing his job, held his mouth firm against her clitoris until in hardly any time at all he'd made her cum.

As he backed off, panting, lusting, loving, he saw her dear hand take tissue from her purse and blot off her livid red slit. His further reward, if he needed any at all, was a smile and a nod from Beverly, his Beverly, as he got up from under her table and went to work.

By four o'clock that day, Beverly had had Bobby go down on her four more times. Her plans for his helping her, guarding her, were working out just fine. Each time her thoughts strayed too far into the fantasy of her future, all she had to do was nod in his direction and he'd come trotting over to give her a nice, under-the-table thrill that served to get her thoughts back on an even keel.

Just after four o'clock, when Rod Hanratty stopped by her machine to tell her he had to see her after work about her group insurance plan, she summoned Bobby over to eat her again. She had not been entirely sure and she'd been getting more and more anxious about whether Rod wanted her to model some more that night after work, as he had suggested the night before.

Bobby's agile tongue and loving mouth now served to quell the last of Beverly's anxieties, so she could be professionally cool and calm during this session with Rod. It would be a most interesting challenge to sexily pose for him with all her sex sated, and a good time to discuss the business aspects of her budding career as a model and as a S*U*P*E*R* S*T*A*R*.

By that time of the day, there was a box of Kleenex on the floor beside Beverly's feet, which Bobby fastidiously used on her dreamily happy twat as soon as Beverly pushed his head away at the end of her lovely orgasm.

Even as he was blotting her dry, she realized she'd need him later that night. There was no way she could get through this really professional sitting with Rod without getting all worked up, and Bobby, as her faithful bodyguard, would be the one she would permit to lull her into restfulness with his cock. Beverly punched out, told Bobby to hang around for at least an hour, freshened up in the John, and mounted the stairs toward Rod's office and her future stardom with elegant, hip-swinging grace.

The lights he'd set up made her smile. They beamed down on the couch in his office to bathe it in professional brilliance. They probably cost more than she made in a week, and the tripod on which his camera was screwed might have cost him just as much. But, good businessman that he was, he knew this equipment was a good investment.

"Want a drink?" said Rod, already sweating lightly in anticipation of the end of this modeling session and the start of the next for the night.

Beverly shook her head. "Booze. . . alcohol is bad for the skin tone. And that would show up under these strong lights you got for me. But you go ahead," she said, and gave Rod's cheek a pinch, and pressed her leg warmly against his. It wouldn't hurt her a bit to get him all turned on and keep hom that way for as long as he was her manager. "I'll just have water or something," she said, her voice a husky purr, her hands a set of kittens' paws playing on his crisp white shirt.

"Make me a scotch and water," said Rod, terrifically anxious. "There's some grapefruit juice you can have if you want it."

On her highest platform shoes, Beverly slunk across the room to his bar, brushing her silky thighs one against the other, moving that very moveable ass he so loved with the grace of a snake in heat. She kept it in small but subtle motion as she poured out a big one for him and put juice in a glass for herself. Then with her lips, shining with lip gloss, working and pursing at him, she strolled back toward him with both hands full.

His shop girl looked pretty good to Rod, certainly good enough to take the edge off his lusts before Linda arrived. And the edge was a sharp one, honed each time he had gazed down from his office window at little Linda, re-honed each time he thought about her, which was all the time that day.

His lusts and his needs were so sharp that by the time of the afternoon break, the blat of her air horn had very nearly made him cream in his silk boxer shorts. And now here before him was the blonde-headed oversexed bitch whom he'd use and abuse all he chose to so that he could have some control of himself when Linda, little Linda, showed up for the next class in her education as his future mistress. Rod felt like knocking the drinks from Beverly's hands, tearing off her dress, and butt-raping her on the spot. But if that got started now, he ran the risk of losing control of his raging lusts and fucking himself into a wreck before Linda even got there. And so he took his scotch from her hand, gave her a thrill by nudging the end of her tit with his finger, and said, "Here's looking at you, kid."

Beverly sipped her fruit juice and said, "Yep. You and a lot of others. How are we gonna work this? A personal management contract to begin with, and then we incorporate me later?"

"Huh?"

"Lots of stars incorporate themselves. Mary Tyler Moore did it. It's probably a big tax break, Rod-honey."

"Don't you worry about that," said he, taking a good big handful of her abundantly firm, round ass. "You let me worry about the taxes, while you worry about keeping that ass on the move."

"And don't you worry about me keepin' this million dollar ass in motion, Roddy-Baby," said Beverly, and she wriggled herself up against him as she turned around, and she cocked up her hip at a beautifully sharp angle and flipped up her skirt and shook her ass at him.

She had on the panties they made at Rod's mill, but they looked different than they did in a box. Bright orange, they were, trimmed with a bit of lace about their leg holes, with their gloss nylon stretched so ultimately tight across her amazingly round, up-thrust bottom that the cloth had become quite sheer. Rod could see the deep cleft in her ass quite clearly, hardly at all flattened by the tightness of the panties she had on, but he couldn't see it quite closely enough from his standing position behind her.

Down on his knees he went. "Oh, baby, have you got an ass!" he exclaimed, holding that ass in his hands, and then as it shook once again, leaning forward to bite it and kiss it until she had squirmed it away. Rod was about to spit. What had come over him that he'd kiss a damned shop girl's ass?? ? And then there was the front panel of the glossy orange ruffled panties there in front of him and undulating so wildly he almost kissed that, and then as she bent over he was kissing her tits through her dress and panting for more when he found he was kissing her mouth. Rod felt totally dazed when she straightened up and fluffed out her hair. A big drink of his scotch brought him back to his senses. He smacked his lips, now looking straight ahead at the vulgar bitch's very effective twitching of her hip as she held her skirt up to her waist and asked him something.

"Huh? What did you say?" said Rod. She sure did have fine little legs, perhaps even more shapely than Linda's, though not nearly so young nor long.

"I said, will you have time to manage your business and little old me at the same time?" she asked.

"The two go together," he brusquely said, and got up from his knees to pour himself another drink. "If you make it as a lingerie model, the plant makes it, too, and I'll have a professional photographer taking the shots of you."

"And that could only be the beginning," she said, moving to music that wasn't yet playing, right between the floodlights with her skirt still up around her softly churning hips and her hands moving all over the taut gloss nylon of her panties. "I could be bigger than the mill, you know."

"And I could be King of Siam," said Rod, and freshened his drink and went to his wife's camera and tripod, flipping on the radio in passing. Pulling her into focus, framing in on her hot little butt, he gnashed his teeth and wondered how long it would be before he had Linda framed in just like that.

Beverly was moving easily and digging hell out of it, feeling warm, moist lips between her legs in spite of the lickings she'd had all day long. She was manipulating the bastard and doing it well, as was silently proved by the bulge in his suit pants and the flush on his cheeks as he worked. Today Hanratty, tomorrow any man she chose. She bumped and ground and let her hips fly, loosening her dress now, for her future career was dependent on Hanratty made bras as well as panties.

"Don't take it over any farther," Rod said, "but don't quit while I reload." Her dress hanging loosely open was sexier than if she'd had it off. He might even start an album of her as well as of Linda if he ever got around to developing the film. "Now go to it, kid," he said, as he snapped the camera shut and glanced at his watch to see that he still had half an hour of this modeling session left.

Beverly danced for a few minutes more before saying, "What about some kind of a contract now?"

She was down to her panties and bra, one bra strap hanging loose, the panties' waistband hooked down over one nubile hip, and still keeping it all on the move, and Rod replied, "God damn it, when it comes time for you to have a contract, I'll get you a goddammed contract!"

It wasn't what he said so much as the way he had said it. Beverly's tone, on the other hand, was as sweet as it could be as she turned her back on him, shucked down the seat of her panties, and said, "Better take care of my contract now, or I'm liable to tell you to kiss my ass."

Rod was down on his knees before he was halfway to her, all puckered up and reaching with both hands for her hips. Her ass, lily-white, could not have looked any cleaner or smelled any sweeter, as Rod snarled, "I'm liable to take you up on that, bitch."

"Bitch?" said she, with a bump of her ass against his face. "Watch out, Mr. Bastard, this bitch is just liable to make you rich," she said, bumping with her every word, jolting a big fat buttock against his panting mouth with each of her syllables.

Rod realized she was laughing, or at least sneering, at him. One of his shop girls laughing at him? Or any bitch of a woman, for that matter! He had to put her in her place, but not at the expense of running her off, because he still needed her for.. . . Rod had to think twice before recalling it was Linda whom he was really after, and that this bitch was only for rehearsals-and for relieving the ache in his nuts. Panting, furious, he yanked down her panties over the rest of her demoniacally beautiful ass, baring her puckered pink butt hole. He slobbered his saliva on his finger and screwed it up that hole before she could let out a yelp, snarling as he did so, and saying, "Right up the asshole, doggy style, you bitch!"

"WAIT!" Beverly cried, almost wetting her pants from the sudden, the unexpected, the altogether overwhelming sensation of insertion.

Rod wasn't waiting. "Call me a bastard, will you?" said he, reaming her out with his finger, gloating through clenched teeth at these new gyrations of the ass he held captive in the crook of his arm, the ass held impaled on his finger. "Contracts," he sneered. "Getting rich," he spat. "You might have a fantastic ass, but this is all that it's good for."

"Modeling! Hollywood! The Rose Parade!" Beverly babbled, half trying to explain just how he could share in her future career, half involved in the fantasy that now went hand in glove with her every sexual experience. And his finger moving in her asshole was definitely a sexual experience. What a butt-fucking he was giving her! What an ass reaming she was getting! His digit alone felt as big as his cock, holding her on the brink of an orgasm as well as on the brink of emptying her bladder. She tried once again to explain to him, through her pantings and twistings and moanings, and his only response was to laugh like a fiend and shove another finger up her ass.

"Hollywood?" he said. "Don't make me laugh. This is all you're good for, getting corn-holed by me, and make no mistake about that!"

"Yes! Yes, give it to me!" she cried, shaking all over her body, shaking an orgasm out of her.

"What do you want in you? Tell me, you dirty bitch!" he said, yanking his fingers out, licking them to lubricate them, and then when she screamed out, "Your cock!", shoving those fingers back into her.

"You gotta beg for my cock," he said, "and then you might not get it. I save my cock for ladies, and you're nothing but a tramp. You might have the greatest ass in the world, but you're no more than a jailbird tramp," said he, as she howled and wailed and groaned and showed him still newer gyrations of her really spectacular ass.

"I beg you," she sobbed from her ecstasy, "put your beautiful cock in my ass!"

"Oh, so it's beautiful, huh? It made you sick to suck on it yesterday, and now you think it's beautiful."

"I love it, it's beautiful, anyplace. Please shove it up my ass."

Rod smirked with fine cruelty, reamed his fingers more gently, almost lovingly through the pliable deep pink lips of her ass, and said in wheedling tones, "My cock, my big cock might be beautiful, but it's not as beautiful as this ass you've got, baby. Yeah. Mm," he said, kissing it once for emphasis, finding it sweeter than ever. "It's not enough to get you into pictures, maybe, but it's enough to make a man get it up. Do you want my cock in it? Do you really, Bev?"

"Baby, gimme," she wheedled, right back at him, and she wheedled some more with her ass. That initial surge of headlong, headstrong abandon was gone, replaced by an all over need to feel this man inside her, deep inside her, maybe hurting her at first, in the end only bringing her joy. Joy to the exclusion of all she might ever know in Hollywood. "Lover-man, shove that big beautiful cock of yours right up my nasty old ass."

"Not too nasty," Rod murmured, his lips against silken soft flesh, his fingers more deeply involved in it. "Might even make a model of you. Might even make you fam. . . . "

The knock at his door raised every hair on his head. It was Linda's knock, timid, unsure, but nevertheless determined to get inside to the lens, to the camera, to the man who was all behind it, that man who had vowed he would have her, himself. Out came his fingers from Beverly, and out of her mouth came another yelp.

He leapt to his feet and spun her about, slung her arms from about his neck and said, "That's my wife! Get out of here, fast! Run, with your dress, down the fire escape, or you and me and the modeling scam and Hollywood is right down the fucking drain!"