Chapter 2

MY FIRST PHONE CALL proved to be my last for that morning; I decided even before it was answered that I'd prefer to make the arrangements I had in mind in person, rather than on the phone. Therefore when Marie's musically cheerful voice came on the line, I simply told her I had something I'd like to talk about whenever it would be convenient. In response to that she declared, in her delightful Parisian accent, "Darling Dore, any time I have an opportunity to see you, it is convenient. Whatever else I might be doing can wait!"

I took time to glance through the morning mail, then told my secretary I might not be back until after lunch and went back down to the garage. I headed back west on Sunset, came to Alpine and turned right a short ways to Lexington, turned left a short ways to Rexford and right again another short, curving way to where Rexford ends and Coldwater Canyon Drive begins climbing into the mountains.

When I topped out where Coldwater intersects Mulholland Drive as it winds its way along the backbone of the Santa Monicas, I turned left on Mulholland. Some minutes later I came to a private road leading away from Mulholland, climbing the ridge which led to the crest of a towering spur which looked down upon all the higher points of the main range itself. A mile from Mulholland that road ended inside the gates of a place that looks like an authentic medieval castle. It was built years ago during the gold rush-like boom that first launched Hollywood out of the orange grove business to international fame as film production center. An actor who had spent most of his life as a vaudeville performer whose finances resembled the course of a roller coaster, had struck a rich vein of Hollywood film pay dirt and had used a small fortune of that new-found wealth to build this castle. He had discovered a sudden intense yearning within himself for privacy, soon after he discovered he could afford such a yearning. The narrow road was the only way the place could be approached. Although it did some winding, almost its entire length was visible from the stronghold of privacy at its end.

So the place had been perfect for Marie's purposes. She had arrived in Hollywood intent upon winning fame as an actress, just like thousands of other beautiful girls have done in the years since

Hollywood switched from producing oranges to processing two-legged peaches. When the Hollywood processing stamped Marie as a reject, as it has always done with the great majority of her sister hopefuls, Marie simply switched objectives. Perhaps she couldn't convince Hollywood producers she should be on the silver screen, but she determined she would still make them come begging for her favors. It had taken time and patience and hard work, but she had it made now.

As I approached the massive gate set between its shoulders of huge stone pillars, the gatemen opened it and waved as I drove through. I had never come here as a customer, but did visit Marie quite frequently as a friend; customers were always stopped, regardless of how often they had been there, and forced to identify themselves and sign a register just as many of them required visitors to do to get into their studios.

Inside the gate the road wound through an expanse of formal gardens, still climbing, and came finally to the turn-around before the main house, the center of which was graced by a spectacular musical fountain where at night multi-hued lights played upon the cascading water in harmony to soft music. Charles, Marie's elegant old butler, was awaiting me at the door. Inside, a heavy stillness filled the air, suggesting a household still soundly sleeping. Charles took me directly to that area of the house few other men have ever visited, Marie's own private apartment. He showed me in, then left, closing the door after himself.

A moment after the soft sound of the door closing had faded into silence, Marie's voice called from some other room beyond my sight, "Is that you, darling?"

I called back, "Exactly which darling do you hope it is?"

"I have but one darling," her laughing voice called back, "and he is my Dore darling. Will you be sweet and come wash my back? I was still in bed when you called. And my maid, the dear girl, is still in her bed fast asleep. So you see-"

She broke off, laughing, because I walked into the huge bathroom of her private quarters just then and stopped, looking down at her and the vision of feminine loveliness she presented. She lay back languidly in the center of her huge Roman bath, which is almost the size of a small swimming pool. As she looked up at me standing in the doorway from her bedroom, her eyes were bright with her usual zest for life. She began again, "So you see I really do need help."

"And just how would you suggest that I might help you, without taking my clothes all off and getting in there with you?" I demanded.

"Isn't that a marvelous idea, Dore darling," she cooed. "What a genius you really are to have thought of it."

"Don't give me that, you minx," I said. "You know better."

"You are terrible!" she was pouting suddenly. "I offer you (for nothing but love) what many other men in this Hollywood have offered as much as ten thousand dollars to enjoy, yet have been refused. What kind of iron man are you?" she asked in a voice that began to have the sound of suppressed sobs in it. She brushed a hand across her eyes as if to erase a starting flow of tears.

"I'm the kind of an iron man who can be melted instantly by a beautiful woman's tears, as you well known," I told her ruefully, beginning to get out of my clothes. That brought a delighted laugh from her. I,added, "I didn't realize it had been so long since my last visit that you'd feel the need to resort to this old scene again."

"But we play this scene so beautifully together, darling. If we played a matinee and evening performance of it each day of each week of each month through the years, still I would never tire of it," she declared in a seductively breathy whisper. "What kind of film producer are you, not to recognize such perfection? It should be recorded for generations still unborn to watch and be inspired by."

"You are simply a female sex maniac who would do anything just to get into a movie, don't try to flimflam me, lady," I told her with mock brusqueness.

"How can you say such a cruel thing?" she pouted again.

"It's easy," I said as I skinned off my last sock. "I'm a psychological sadist, an expert at mental cruelty."

She giggled in delight, then exclaimed, "Our government should use you against the Russians and all the other communists and enemies of happiness."

"It would completely destroy the world balance of power, if they did," I declared seriously, testing the temperature of her bath water with a big toe. Then I leaped high, without warning, and hit the water in a belly buster that sent water splashing high and raised a startled scream from Marie. It chopped off in a gurgle as the wave I created hit her and momentarily swamped her.

She surfaced again coughing and sputtering. When she began to get her breath, she began using it to swear at me in French. But I splashed water at her and laughed; somehow her sudden fury struck me funny. In a moment she was splashing water back at me furiously, and in another moment her fury had been worked off and she was laughing with me.

For several more moments we splashed each other madly, all the while laughing like fools. Then I lunged through the spray she was sending toward me, grabbed her, pinning her arms, and kissed her soundly.

And she kissed back. Feverishly. Demandingly. Hungrily.

Marie's sweet tongue thrust boldly past my lips into my mouth, like the owner of a favorite hideaway love nest walking into a place where he feels she belongs and expects to fully enjoy himself. Her tongue twined with mine, then went skipping away, darting here and there, caressing the sensitive inner surfaces of my mouth. The way she did it, and because it was her doing it, I think, gave me a strange, exquisite pleasure. A pleasure I believe is probably as near as a man can approach to experiencing the kind of pleasure a woman enjoys when she receives the caressing cock of a man she loves into her body. The effect certainly seemed similar.

Within moments my whole body was filled with a fiery anticipation as demanding as any teenage boy about to couple with a girl for his very first time. But I fortunately had the priceless advantage of control which only experience can bring.

Marie's hands were on my head, her fingers working, clutching and writhing in my hair, as that kiss continued. Suddenly one of her hands flew from my head to the surface of the water and down through the water to grip the shaft of my cock.

She gave an upward hop, using her buoyancy in the water to slow her descent just enough to allow her to neatly impale herself upon my loving spear. As it drove into her, her guiding hand flew up to grab me around the neck, supporting her weight as she raised her feet and locked her legs around me, pinning our bodies securely together.

Only then did she break our kiss. She looked triumphant as she drew her lips away from mine quickly, gave me a searching look, then laughed as if filled with sheer delight.

Joyfully she exclaimed, "I have you, now! And I will not let you go ... until you have sent me rocketing to heaven, as only you, darling Dore, can do."

I protested, "I am not a dolphin or a porpoise or whatever other name pleases you for a loving mammal of the sea. My love making in water just doesn't have that much finesse."

"Wonderful, darling!" she shouted in glee. "I have perhaps discovered an area in which you need practice! I will devote myself to helping you acquire the same flawless finesse in a tub or a pool that you demonstrate so matchlessly in a bed or upon a rug or before a hearth!"

I started to protest again about the aquatics.

She covered my mouth with the fingertips of one hand, shaking her head, murmuring, "You must, darling Dore. You simply must. Never before have I enjoyed an opportunity to help you learn something of this great art of communication to which we both are avid devotees."

Again I tried to protest.

Her fingertips pressed more insistently against my lips. "You simply must!" she declared, her voice rising. "This is an opportunity for us to learn more of our art together. How could you be so cruel as to deny me that?"

She took her hand from my mouth.

I opened my mouth to argue.

She clamped her legs tighter around me and ground her flat, soft belly against mine like she was doing a strip-tease routine. Her lusciously feverish sheath moved upon my shaft while the head of my cock, buried deep within her, was bobbing here and there inside her, making delicious momentary contacts with her fantastically exciting secret parts. It created an engulfing wave of sensation within me that swallowed up my capacity to protest or to argue.

I shut my mouth. Perhaps I even gulped, like a naive schoolboy. That Marie was terrific.

I gave her a sudden thrust. She seemed to accept it as my signal of defeat. She stopped that marvelous movement she had been so intently making with both her outer and inner belly, a peal of delighted laugher rippling from her. Breathlessly she demanded, "I have certain powers too, haven't I, darling?"

"You are a sorceress of sex," I declared. "You lure a hard working knight of commerce into your secret lair-"

She interrupted, reminding, "You called me, darling!"

"Don't try to confuse me with facts," I chided her. "You will stoop to anything, won't you?"

"To win more of your time and loving attentions ... yes," she said, nodding. "Where you are concerned, I am shameless."

"A shameless whore!" I exclaimed. "What is this world coming to?"

She laughed as if overjoyed. When she stopped, she gasped, "If I am a whore, then what can this be coupled to me but the greatest whoremongering whoremaster of all time. The virtuoso, the maestro of whoremongers and whoremasters."

"Flattery will get you nothing," I warned her.

Delighted, she exclaimed, "Nor you."

I gave her another hard thrust. She gasped sharply, then moaned with pleasure, letting the low sound trickle from her lips as if savoring it.

"But I did call you, as a matter-of-fact, didn't I?" I admitted.

"You did, but can't we talk about that later?" she whispered, beginning that delicious grinding against me with her luscious belly again.

"You don't care why I came to see you?" I asked, surprised. I'll admit my breathing was ragged and my voice uneven from the terrific sensation she was again beginning to build within me.

She shook her head. She sounded breathless as she gasped, "Right now I only care why I wanted you to come see me."

"You are a persistent minx!" I exclaimed. "All right. Pleasure first. My business later."

And so our mutual adventure in porpoise-fashion lovemaking passed beyond the preliminaries and really got under way.