Chapter 7
Gurney and Sandy were among the early returnees from Lloyd's where almost everyone dined. As soon as he saw the Benedicts' car parked by their portable, he picked up his script and the notes he had made during the day and kissed Sandy warmly.
"If you get tired before I get back, hon, don't wait up. You need to be rested tomorrow if Burton's going to run you women over that trail... I got a look at it today while I was checking my own geography."
"Okay, I will... if you promise to wake me up when you come to bed."
"It's a deal. I won't say just what method I might use to get you awake, though."
"Anything but icewater."
"I was considering something warmer than that, really."
"Promises, promises!"
"Yeah. Well, see you later, hon." He went out and strode the few hundred feet to the Benedicts'. Mort, who answered the door, looked startled for a moment when he saw Gurney, then recovered quickly and invited him in.
"That's right, I forgot you have to plan your own stunts for this one. June's just making some after-dinner drinks." Mort closed the door and called out to the kitchenette. "Make three, Junie; Gur's here to see you."
"I am, dear; I heard him come in. Hi, Gur. With you in a sec," she called back loudly. In little more than the second, she came in carrying three brandy crustas and three coasters, getting them all placed properly without spilling a drop.
She was wearing a colorful paisley silk cheongsam that accented her high, proud breasts, trim waist and patrician neck. Gurney swallowed as her movements parted the side slit and revealed more than a little of her creamy thigh. She took a chair at the small table in the living-dining area and gestured Gurney to take the chair to her left. He saw that she had the master script and an abstract from his contract in front of her.
He tossed his papers on the table beside hers and sat down. They both took an initial sip of their drinks and Gurney hoisted his glass in an exaggerated salute.
"You're quite, a mixmaster, Junie. This is delicious."
"One of the few I can mix properly; I happen to love the damn things, especially after dinner. Well, what have you figured out for us. Can you swing all the bits safely yourself? I mean, good enough to sell Mr. C?"
"I think so. I'm sure of all but one, and I believe I can sell him on letting me do that, too, if he'll agree to a slight change in timing. Look at this a minute." He unfolded a penciled map of part of the shooting area, showing solid, dashed, and dotted lines going in various directions. He put a pencil point on the dotted line as he spoke.
"Your location man had the stagecoach at this point... " Gurney made a small "x" by what looked like the sketch of a tree. "Our hero has to jump out of this tree and land on top. But I was studying that curved line of the coach route, wondering why he had it swerve right there... "
"Just a minute," June said, thumbing through her master script until she came to a larger sketch similar to Gurney's. This one was from an office copying machine. "Yes, I see. Why does it make that curve just when you're supposed to jump on it?"
"Well, what he didn't mark on the location master is a small cluster of boulders right here... " He indicated a group of rocks sketched on his own penciled map. "The coach has to turn to keep from hitting those rocks with its right wheels; they'd flip the damn thing over like a pancake.
"Now, the bit's sound in theory, but I disagree with the guy who says the coach can make that turn sharply enough to avoid the rocks at the speed it has to use at that point, coming down the grade up there as it will. I say it'll turn over anyway if they try it. And I don't intend to be on top of it when it does."
"I don't know," June sighed at this discrepancy. "You know Mr. C. accepts what the stunt people tell him they can do. And if they say they can do it without changes and you say you can't, it looks to me as if he'll insist on them doing it."
"It'll cost him the coach if he does," said Gurney stubbornly. "You see, when the location man for the stunt boys figured out the moves, he planned them for one of our standard studio coach models. But that big, beautiful custom coach Burt spotted near Snow Valley is a different beast.
Granted, he leased it for the film cheaper than he could get a studio coach all the way up here. But this gem has one hangup: Its turning radius is a hell of a lot wider than our standard hoked-up coaches. Use this one for that sharp a turn and you'll not only crack up the coach, you'll have to shoot a horse or two and maybe some people will be hurt."
"That's a different story," June said. "You checked out the coach yourself, then?" Gurney nodded. "Then I'll tell Mr. C. I recommend the stunt men check the coach as you did before we decide that one. Now, how about that 'slight change in timing' you mentioned? What alternative do you offer?" She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, and Gurney got a generous view of her shapely thighs again.
Morton, sitting in a comfortable chair several feet away, saw the look on Gurney's face and the way his hand moved to grip his cock under the table. That cheongsam's showing him her thighs, and he's ready to screw her right now. if she still needs taking care of after what Burt gave her today, he's welcome to try!
"I'm going to take a walk," he announced, getting up and going to the door. "This sitting around after a big dinner is what makes me so flabby. Don't wait up, Junie. See you tomorrow, Gur." He went out before anyone could respond to his sudden departure.
There was a bright moon, and the air was cool and clean. He strode masterfully along over the compound, not heading anywhere in particular, but realized that he was retracing his steps of that morning.
His first impulse was to change his course. But he thought he might feel a little strange around Burton after the two times he had seen him today. When Chadwick hailed him earlier-as he was heading home after parting Sandy's company-the director had told him about the status of the pirate epic. At the time, Morton had been gratified, but after thinking it over for a few hours, he wondered if the status had been altered in his favor by what had gone on between Burton and June.
Thinking it over again, and recalling all that he knew of Chadwick, he was sure that Burton was not the sort to "pay off" a man for pleasures shared with the man's wife. As he repented his doubts of Chadwick's character, he felt duty bound to continue his course toward the director's mobile unit and mention an idea he had been thinking about... an idea for that pirate film that could save the company from shooting costs.
He turned in by the sleekly designed trailer and rounded it to the patio, forcing himself to relax and prepare for a congenial chat. He noticed that the big station wagon was not parked under its car cover, but angled in back near the patio. The bright moon was reflected in the glass of the tinted windshield and windows.
As he stepped under the awning of the patio he saw Cara Lisa lying back on a redwood chaise longue, bathed in the moonlight reflected by the car windows. But he had a hard time convincing himself that he was not having hallucinations. Could Cara Lisa, the screen darling of millions, be doing what he thought he saw her doing?
Burton Chadwick had indulged in one of his favorite acquired Americanisms tonight: Barbecuing steaks on his own outdoor grill had been especially gratifying in the sweet mountain air, with almost no one else in the whole compound, since Lloyd's magnetized them all at dinnertime.
When the company all started to trickle back from town, Burton decided to go do something he had been thinking about for several hours. If he didn't he might postpone it again as he had for several days.
Sandra Stone was a damn fine actress, and Burton wished he had more scripts calling for her fair, red-haired elfin type of beauty. He hated to see her wasted in character parts, even though she handled them beautifully. And he had thought of an opportunity for her in the current filming.
"Lisa, I'm going to go over to the Adams' and offer Sandra the second lead. If she'll take it, I'll turn down the replacements Central offered after Kate went into surgery." Burton was watching his wife open his treasured volume of Aubrey Beardsley prints as she sat on the sofa amidst a pile of colorful pillows.
"Sandy?" Lisa looked up, puzzled. "But then who will play Mrs. Elkins?"
"Sandy," said Burton. "She can handle both roles. After all, they never appear in any of the same scenes."
"That's right, Good idea. I think she's better for the part than Kate would have been, anyway. I hope she'll take it."
"Well, I think I can sell her on the idea. Especially if I promise her double billing."
"All right, darling. Don't get to playing poker with Gurney, though. You two don't know when to stop when you get started."
"I promise," he said, and left the coolness of the air conditioned dwelling for the pleasant balminess of the night air. Lisa thumbed slowly through the book, and soon found herself fascinated with those drawings which portrayed exaggerated penises.
When she came to the Adoration of the Penis from Lysistrata, she licked her lips and stared at the obvious foreplay of an impossible act of fellatio.
"My God!" she said aloud. "What enormous balls! One could make a meal of each." And as she continued to stare at the huge, abnormal penis and testicles and the kneeling woman embracing them as she kissed the scrotum, Lisa suddenly hungered for a penis to play with. Notwithstanding her erotic exercises of the day, she had been wined and dined in the relaxed coziness of her own domicile, and she was rested and refreshed. The pornographic value of the drawing was at its highest for her at that moment.
The longer she looked, the hotter she got. Her left hand slowly strayed from the book, crept under her negligee, and slipped between her thighs to the moistening slit of her cunt. Her middle finger toyed in the damp heat of her fleshy gorge until she began to gasp and moan.
She tried to tear her gaze from the symbolic drawing, even forcing herself to look at the one on the opposite page as an antidote. It was also from Lysistrata, depicting the defense of the Acropolis.
She saw the farting ass of one woman and the tits and snatch of another, and they reminded her of her Lesbian session in the woods. Remembering the tastes, textures and tinglings of her bout with Selma made her cream heavily, flooding her fingers and palm.
Then she recalled Gurney's participation, and the magical power of his weirdly curved penis as it entered her inner sanctum and rendered her unconscious. Her eyes strayed back to the phallic drawing, and the gigantic organs enthralled her more than ever.
"Oohhhh!" she moaned, fingering herself furiously. "Burt, hurry home! I need your cock! I want to be filled with it!" Her ass bounced rhythmically on the sofa as she fingered deep into her vagina and rubbed her clitoris against her hand excitedly.
I have to stop this. I'll lose my mind, playing with myself like this and no one to satisfy me!
In an abrupt burst of will power, she tore her fingers out of her pussy, got up, ran to the door and outside into the night air. There was only a faint breeze, and it did little to cool her off. Instead, it fanned the filmy material of her negligee, making the delicate fabric caress her skin all over. She moaned and sank down onto the thickly padded redwood of the chaise longue that was near the barbecue grill.
The breeze continued to whip her negligee against her, tickling the sensitive tips of her nipples and making them erect pulsingly. The constantly moving folds of the garment caressed her legs and thighs, as if she were being titillated by a many-fingered lover.
"Oh, I want to be screwed!" she cried softly, throwing her hands out to her sides desperately and tightening her thighs in an effort to assuage the sensations that were tearing through her.
Her right hand touched something hard, cylindrical, slightly warm. She gasped and closed her fingers around it. She knew what it was: The handle of one of Burt's barbecue utensils, warm from the nearness of the still-hot coals. It was of hardwood, quite smooth the full length of its fat, cylindrical shape, and having a knob at the end, a knob not too unlike the head on a male phallus.
She moaned, pulled her hand toward her, still clasping the symbolic shape, and pressed it to her crotch through the fabric of the negligee. The touch made her whimper. She opened her tight thighs and pulled up the negligee, then inserted the phallic handle in her vaginal entrance.
"Ughhh!" she grunted as it entered her slippery passage. "Oh, yes! That's good... good!" She worked it into her cunt until it touched her inner depths, the hard knob resting against the swollen donut of her uterine door.
Grunting and gasping with every stroke, she screwed herself with the hardwood dildo, hanging onto it by the malletlike saltshaker mounted at its business end. How lucky I didn't grab up the one that's a knife! she thought. They're all alike at the handle.
She was working herself into a frenzy, when she heard a sound and looked up to see Morton Benedict standing nearby and staring at her with unbelieving eyes.
It was not in Cara Lisa's nature to feel true guilt of a type that would have embarrassed another sort of woman beyond description. The battle inside her was not between schizoid ego-halves disagreeing over the morality or propriety of what she was driven to do. Rather, it was between her tremendously powerful sexuality and her native intellect. The one demanded fulfillment of a burning desire; the other insisted that this route would not get the job done completely. In Morton, then, she saw not a shocked invader of her privacy, who could ruin her name; she saw a man and knew that he could be her salvation.
"Mort! Help me!" She moaned, continuing the stroking action as her eyes pleaded with him.
"Wh-what's the matter, Lisa? Is it stuck inside you?" Mort thought only that she had asked his help to remove whatever she had in her.
"Take it out and... stick your cock... in its place," she begged. Her gasping was partly from the effects of passion and partly from physical exertion.
Morton's first reaction, other than the erection she had caused by her display and now emphasized by her invitation, was to wonder where Burton was. But obviously he was not at home if Lisa was reduced to this. Then he wondered what would happen if Burton returned while Morton was accepting Lisa's offer.
What the hell! He was screwing June this morning; he'd better not have any objection to my screwing his wife tonight! He unfastened his slacks, peeled off them and his shorts and tossed them onto the redwood chair nearby. Then he placed his hands over Lisa's and tried to slow down her tempo so he could disengage the object, if indeed it were caught somehow. But she was almost hysterically committed to the mechanical movements, and he could not control her.
"Lisa!" he said loudly, almost into her ear. "Let go! I can't get my cock into you until I take this out!" For a moment he had the feeling she had not heard him. Her eyes had started to glass over and saliva was beginning to appear at the corners of her mouth. But she slowed her tempo a little and he thought she had gotten control of herself.
Then she started to speed up again. Morton released the grip he had on one of her hands and slapped her smartly on the cheek. Immediately her eyes started to show signs of focusing and her hands went limp around the saltshaker. Morton seized the dildo and slowly removed it from her, his eyes trained on the length of the slippery, wet hardwood shaft as it appeared.
When the nob slipped out, he stared at it, shook his head, and let it drop to the ground. I can't match it for "hard" but I'll beat the hell out of it for "anxious".
He stared now at the gaping vulnerability of Lisa's cunt. It was drawn widely open by the exaggerated angle of her thighs. Her knees were hanging over the padded edge of the chaise, her feet planted on the ground.
The dark glossiness of her bush was a primitive pelt that formed a huge, furry donut with a blossoming center of dark, purplish pink with maroon overtones. The center of the blossom was a dark throat, gleaming with the flow of her honey. It seemed to pulse, swallowing as if in need of nourishment.
Morton groaned at the savage beauty of her beckoning exhibition. He scooped his clothes off the ground and stuffed them in a wad under her buttocks, getting them tangled with her negligee and then rearranging them to clear the area for action.
He grabbed his cock, exulted at its rigidity, and knelt on the pad between her thighs. When he placed the hypersensitized head in the center of her fleshy flower, he was shocked at the coolness of the moist surface where the air had evaporated much of her excess lubricant.
But as he shoved into the quivering sheath of her vagina, he felt the sudden rise in temperature. It was glorious coming in from the cold. Her pulsating tunnel wrapped him in the steamy warmth of marinated velvet. It surrounded the seeking cylinder which was the extension of his being and coaxed it caressingly deeper into the mystery of her cave, massaging it hypnotically to the tempo of her inner convulsions.
"Lisa!" he whispered, thrilling to the very physical confirmation of her spoken need for him. "Lisa, I'm... in you now! God! it feels maddeningly... voluptuous!"
"Tighter, Morty!" she cried. "Press deeper and push against me... hard!" She wanted the pressure of his pubis against the upper portion of her vulva. She wanted every sensation of contact she could get. "Screw me, Morty... screw me good!"
Her lightweight bottom scooted around on the chaise pad, contorting the shape of her lovely buttocks as they rotated in eager search for the best position to capture and keep the ultimate sensation she sought.
Morty's studied thrusts plumbed her passage steadily, squeegeeing her juices to the end of the tunnel on the instroke and carrying them back on the outstroke behind the swollen swab of his coronal ridge. His hands had slipped under her to cup against her back above her hips. He pulled down on her hips hard, aiding her tempoed efforts to tilt her pelvis upward at each instroke, socking the head of his cock into the limits of her accommodation.
Lisa started to whimper as her release appeared on the foggy horizon of her awareness, as if she feared it might be a mirage that would dance ahead of her interminably.
But the golden glow of warmth began to envelop her as she passed the center of the colorful rainbow which was her roller coaster. Then she slid slowly down the arc into the treasured source of the warmth.
"Morty!" she gasped. "I'm almost... there!"
He plowed into her frantically, feeling his own surge develop into gigantic proportions as his seed boiled up in him, ready to carry his ego by proxy where he could not go, cementing them for a brief moment into one burst of energy.
Her final throes were so violent that he had to hold to her as he erupted in hot gushes. The lava splashed into her crater and surged up her walls, past the piston of his cock, pressuring toward the only escape outlet.
It oozed swiftly around between them and dribbled down to pool on the canvas pad and on Morton's clothes and Lisa's negligee, now a tangled, sodden mass beneath her perspiring ass.
The last few spurts of his ejaculation drew quivering gasps from her as her own major convulsions subsided and she felt the swelling of his spasms and the warmth of the fluid he expelled. When he had spent himself, he sighed loudly and allowed his chest to rest briefly against the twin cushions of her bountiful tits.
"Oh, Morty... you got me there!" she panted. "I knew you could. What I was doing... could not!"
"But what got you so... worked up that you... stuck that thing... inside your pussy?" he had to know.
"I'll show you when... I catch my breath," she promised.
"Me, too." Morty lifted himself up to take the pressure off both their diaphragms and chests. He felt the sucking severance of their connection and the wet smack of his limber penis against his thigh. Then he was somehow on his feet, wobbling a little on unsteady legs.
Lisa put up her hand and he helped her up. Like the blind leading the blind, they staggered hand-in-hand into the living room, and Lisa found the Beardsley volume where it had fallen to the floor by the sofa as she dashed outside in her panic.
When she found the pages that had stirred her, Morton looked at them and shook his head dubiously. It seemed pornographic, all right, but he could not imagine it shaking up a woman of Lisa's intellect so badly that she had gotten herself as lathered up as he had seen her.
"I'm not complaining, Lisa," he explained. "After all, if you hadn't gotten so worked up I would have missed one of the most deliciously exciting adventures of my life. But this drawing is so exaggerated... I mean, does a freaky thing like that excite a woman so much... that disproportionate size? You know it can't be realistic. The guy would fall on his face carrying such a load of cock and balls."
"Mort, it's not the realism of the drawing; it's the symbolism. I just wanted a cock in me so bad, and I thought I had to wait until Burt came back. Then it seemed just like because I had to wait for it, I wanted it all the more. The feeling built up so fast in me that I wasn't prepared to fight it or anything. Can you understand that?"
"Well... maybe I can... sort of." Mort was remembering the "comic books" he had seen as a boy. The grossly exaggerated cartoons had moved him pretty effectively, as he recalled. Enough to give him such a hard on he had to jack off immediately.
"But you came alone, thank God!" Lisa said.
"Yes, thank God I did!" Morton divided his gratitude between two causes. He was glad Lisa had been spared an even worse or more extended period of frustration, and he was grateful that he had experienced the delight of her overheated sexuality. He didn't kid himself which one got the greater credit for his thankfulness.
"Say, I'd better get my clothes on!" he said, and hurried out to the chaise and reclaimed the sodden bundle. Lisa came out as he finished fastening his slacks and stood there looking at him.
"I think you can't wear those into town like that," she said laughingly. Mort grinned at her foolishly.
"They're wash-and-wear, luckily. And I don't think I have the energy to go back to town tonight, anyhow. I'd better get back to June. Thank you, Lisa, for a beautiful evening."
"Thank you, Morton," she said, waving to him as he moved out of the patio. And as he disappeared from sight, she whispered it again to the ghost of his presence. The night breeze swirled her negligee high above her hips. Before she could push it down and go back inside the stillness of the mobile home, she felt the coolness of evaporating moisture in her crotch and on her thighs.
There had been a few long minutes earlier when she did not expect ever again to feel cool there. It was good to know that one could be so near the brink and yet be rescued. It was good to know that there were those who could take such a rescue and its temporary commitments in stride.
She had never had very strong feelings about Morton Benedict, one way or another. From now on, she knew, he would be more than another good actor who was in her husband's favored lists.
Yes, her husband. Wonderful Burt! What was keeping him, anyhow? He should be home very soon...