Girl Model For Sale
 by Barbara Kenn


INTRODUCTION 

The name of George Plimpton is probably familiar even to Americans who have 
not read his books, partly because of his unusual involvements in 
professional sports, and partly because his life story is one that could 
have been invented by Horatio Alger, last century's famous writer of books 
about boys who struck it rich. 

Plimpton started out with several things going for him, of course. He was 
educated at Harvard, where he edited the Lampoon, and at Cambridge 
University. He became a highly respected literary figure as editor of the 
Paris Review. His family background was distinguished (his father is Francis 
T. Plimpton, a former ambassador and U.S. representative to the United 
Nations), and he was also blessed with wealth and good looks. Instead of 
opting for being a playboy and dilettante, however, he developed a 
prodigious appetite for hard work and experimentation. The results have been 
highly unusual. 

Plimpton's first book was Out of My League, in which he described his 
experiences playing baseball with the All Stars, the first team to accept 
him as a temporary player and allow him to gain invaluable experience along 
with a good deal of physical punishment. Ernest Hemingway called this book, 
in which Plimpton told how he found himself pitching to Willie Mays in 
Yankee Stadium, "the dark side of the moon of Walter Mitty." 

Plimpton next took up professional football, and persuaded the Detroit Lions 
to let him play long enough to enable him to write Paper Lion. About this 
book, the eminent critic Eliot Fremont-Smith said, "As this book reveals 
him, he is a man compounded of, among other things, endless curiosity, 
unshakable enthusiasm and nerve, and a deep respect for the world he enters. 
As a writer he is truthful without betraying anyone, modest but never 
falsely so, hilariously funny without once being arch. He makes his subject 
absolutely fascinating, football fan or no. How he fared is a tale to 
gladden the envious heart of any 'average weekend athlete,' or anyone else 
for that matter. One winces and laughs at the Paper Lion and then throughout 
this lovely book one begins to understand once more what it is all about." 

Plimpton entered the world of professional golf to gather material for The 
Bogey Man, and since then has gone on to other exploits; his name is seldom 
out of the headlines for very has played tennis with Pancho Gonzalez, golf 
with Sam Snead and bridge with Oswald Jacoby as a partner. His three rounds 
with Archie Moore resulted in some torn nasal cartilage." 

In many ways, then, George Plimpton is the epitome of the American Dream a 
kind of Jack Armstrong, the Ail-American Boy, come to life. That he had 
unusual opportunities to do so is beside the point when you give him his 
richly deserved credit for thinking of doing these things at all and the 
skill and courage he displayed in their execution. And perhaps most of all, 
one must thank him for demonstrating that the frequently maligned "American 
Dream" actually still exists. 

Charlene Kane, the sixteen-year-old heroine of Girl Model for Sale, is 
another example of the young American who finds that dreams can come true 
(although, needless to say, her story is completely fictional). Charlene 
wants nothing so much as to be a successful fashion model. Like George 
Plimpton, she has a better-than-average opportunity because her mother, who 
is still well on the youthful side of forty, is an acknowledged winner in 
the fashion "game" already. Ironically, however, Charlene's mother turns out 
to be almost as much of a hindrance as a help. Aside from being able to 
introduce Charlene to some of the right people to get her started in her 
career, Sonja turns out to be an inherently destructive type and Charlene 
has to learn the painful lesson that it is better to go it alone, doing 
things her own way. 

Charlene has other things going for her, too: things like brains, beauty and 
talent. And she needs all of them. For there are many people many cold, 
ruthless, self-centered men in the crassly commercial world she enters who 
think they can buy her outright. At first, in fact, they seem to succeed. It 
is only by remaining true to herself that Charlene is able to salvage any 
shred of dignity. 

Yes, Charlene has dreams typically American dreams. In some ways they are 
very similar to the dreams of George Plimpton; in others, very different. 
And many of them turn to ashes in the course of her adventures. Her dreams 
of romance vanish, to be replaced by the reality of sordid sexual affairs. 
But you will have to read to the very last page of Girl Model for Sale to 
see which of her dreams remain untarnished and what triumphs she finally 
achieves. In doing so, you will be rewarded by a highly entertaining as well 
as an enlightening story. 

-The Publishers 


CHAPTER ONE 

Charlene Kane stepped out of the car, straightened her short skirt, and 
turned to the boy. "Thanks, Tom," she said. 

Tom smiled. "You don't think your mother will be mad, do you? It's two 
o'clock." 

"Not my mother," Charlene laughed. "You know Sonja better than that!" 

Then she leaned forward and gave the boy a smallish peck on the cheek, an 
incongruous peck in light of what they'd been doing earlier. 

"Bye, for now," she said, and started up the walkway toward the shrub-lined 
house. It was a beautiful night and Charlene thought to herself it was a 
shame to walk indoors, away from it; this would be a perfect night for 
swimming in the nude. But no no time for that. Besides, she wasn't 
especially happy with the way the evening had turned out. 

Tom had been nice enough and things had gone pleasantly, but she certainly 
hadn't been brought to the pitch of excitement she had anticipated. But 
then, maybe she had expected too much. Maybe her girl friends had been 
putting her on when they told her how way-out their sexual experiments had 
been. Maybe this this partly satisfactory, lukewarm experiment with Tom was 
all there was to it. She hoped not. And deep in the recesses of her mind, 
she thought not. 

But, all in all, Tom had been nice, and though he hadn't provided what she 
sought, she none the less felt that she had been close for however short a 
period of time to someone. And that was a definite plus. Being shuttled, as 
she was, between her divorced parents, she had begun to feel like a much 
mailed but never accepted parcel. 

Finally, the key worked in the sticky lock. She opened the door as quietly 
as possible, but, as always, it creaked. She loved the old house on Laurel 
Canyon and always looked forward to her court-approved visits with Mom. But 
this time, unfortunately, her usual joy was dampened. The circumstances of 
this homecoming were altogether different from those previous visits. This 
time, Charlene felt, her whole life was on the line. Earlier, she had had an 
urge to come straightaway to her mother to blurt out the awful recent events 
in a torrent of words and tears but then had recalled how her mother was 
always easier to talk to in the morning. She was glad, in retrospect, that 
she had accepted the date with Tom even if she had used him principally as 
an escape. 

Of course, there was the possibility that Mom would still be out with one of 
the clients the male clothing buyers who made or broke the ready-wear 
manufacturers by their decisions, and who, in effect, dictated fashion 
industry trends as much as anyone. If so, there was no telling when she'd be 
home. For that matter, there was no certainty that Mom wasn't in Vegas or 
some other posh place, sopping up drinks, throwing away the buyer's 
expense-account money, having a hell of a good time, putting out. Oh, yes, 
Mom put out just as if it were going out of style. She had once told 
Charlene that whenever a man didn't proposition her the more directly the 
better she felt slighted, and, inevitably, angered. Mom by her own 
exaggerated account, that is had never turned down anyone who could walk or 
talk, or who was otherwise capable of functioning. 

But that wasn't altogether strange, in Charlene's view; not if one first 
considered the demands and intrigues of the fashion industry. Girls young, 
not so young, even well-ripened, like Mom, though she could pass for 
twenty-five were called upon to do just about anything necessary to insure 
an account. A carload of crisp new pant suits, for example, might represent 
employment for hundreds of garment workers, and profit enough to sustain the 
interest of the investors. Yes, a sale like that pretty much justified 
whatever sacrifice it entailed. 

Charlene closed the door quietly and allowed her eyes a few moments to 
adjust to the semi-lighted hallway. 

Won't Mom be surprised when she finds me curled up in my own bed in the 
morning, Charlene thought. She momentarily considered waking her mother to 
announce her visit, but thought better of it,decided to be very quiet, just 
in case. Tomorrow would be soon enough to explain the unexpected visit. No, 
this was not just a visit. She would never be going back to her Dad. Not 
ever! 

She caught a glimpse of herself in the antiqued hall mirror. Not bad, she 
thought, with a toss of her long blonde hair. A little disheveled maybe, 
from wearing the same clothes since morning, but she still didn't look too 
bad in her short summer dress with the matching panties. Mom, the old 
mannequin who'd never die, only pivot away she didn't mean that the way it 
sounded, she chided herself, but it was true, Mom would never quit had told 
her that mini dresses were out, that this summer's fashion was instead to 
wear very short skirts or dresses with matching panties. "Teenage fashion," 
she had qualified, and not for "old broads" like herself. And that was funny 
in itself. Sonja called herself an "old broad," but God help anyone else who 
might choose to call her that. 

Anyway, in Charlene's view, her mother would probably accept the role of the 
little old lady on television who advertises the Greyhound Bus, or the 
next-door neighbor who tells the pretty young bride how to make coffee, 
before she'd ever give up the idea of modeling, or posing, or acting. Of 
course, she was a long way from that. In commercials she was the beautiful 
young mother whose perfect hands put her daughter's to shame. She also 
looked sensational walking down the runway in the tearooms of the better 
department stores modeling lavish Paris imports with elegant style. 

It was fortunate, Charlene thought, as she removed her shoes to tiptoe up 
the squeaky stairs, that she kept a few clothes here, since this time she'd 
run off without even an overnight bag. Of course, she would no doubt find 
several new samples of next season's line hanging fresh and crisp in her 
closet. Obtaining these samples, Charlene suspected, was an "extra" bonus 
her mother received for being "extra" cooperative. 

With each careful step upward and with each predictable squeak, she held her 
breath for fear that her breathing, added to the noise of the creaking, 
would cause her discovery. She conjured up a vision of all the termites 
holding hands to keep the old stairs from caving in. The thought made her 
almost laugh, but when she reached the top landing she slowly allowed 
herself to breathe again. 

It was then, above the complete stillness of the house, that she heard the 
strange noises. As she crept down the hall the noises became louder. They 
were moans, maybe even strangled screams, but not the sort of screams one 
makes when frightened or hurt or angry, as she had been earlier that day 
during that awful scene with Dad. 

She finally stood at the open door of her mother's luxurious bedroom. She 
could see everything plainly. The glow from a nearby candelabra threw 
dancing light upon the two forms in the over-large bed. Charlene felt a 
sudden shock, for she was certain one of those entwined bodies belonged to 
Mom. Yet, she reasoned, why should she be shocked? She knew very well what 
sort of things her mother did. But here she was personally viewing what she 
had heretofore only imagined, and the actuality of the thing was, indeed, 
somewhat shocking. But, as Charlene soon discovered, there is but a very 
thin line separating shock and excitement. 

She stood transfixed, hypnotized, by the view of the writhing bodies. 

"Oh, my God," she heard her mother moan, "it's so wonderful. What a huge, 
gorgeous cock! Yes. Oh, yes, fuck me hard and fast. It's so good." Her 
shapely model's legs were wrapped tightly around the man's hips as her own 
thrust forward to meet him. She seemed intent on taking as much of him as 
possible. 

Charlene heard the man say, "You've got the sweetest, hottest, drippiest 
cunt in the world, baby. And you want me to fuck you every night, don't you? 
You beg me to fuck you every night. And you're not going to let anybody else 
fuck you, right?" 

"Oh, yes, yes, darling," Sonja gasped. "Anything you say. You're the only 
man I want... Oh, God, I'm coming, I'm coming... oh, Christ, that big hard 
cock is going to kill me!" 

Charlene could feel her own excitement rising. She could feel, as if by 
osmosis, her mother's hot passion flow through her own body. Hot fluids were 
building and secreting. And then, as she watched on, those same fluids and 
pressures announced their demand to be released. When she saw her mother's 
body shake in great tumultuous waves simultaneously grabbing the pillow and 
digging her tapered nails into it, so as not to rip into the man's back 
Charlene very nearly duplicated the older woman's orgasm. She was tempted to 
slip her hand into her panties and finger herself one touch would be enough, 
she thought but she was also enraptured on an intellectual level, and thus 
wanted to continue giving her sharp attention to the scene. 

Now spent, obviously exhausted, the two perspiring bodies on the bed 
collapsed, supine, no longer entwined. At length, the man said, in a low 
voice, "Well, at least you didn't scratch my back to shreds. That was really 
nice." 

"Oh, was it ever! Even if I did have to mangle that poor pillow instead of 
you, it was the greatest." Charlene, still hidden and stark motionless, was 
mildly curious about this last exchange, With Tom, earlier, she had 
experienced no desire whatever to scratch and claw, but then, she had 
experienced damned little desire of any sort nothing, certainly, approaching 
what she had just witnessed. Had she known the significance her mother and 
the man attached to those references to scratching and clawing, Charlene 
likely would have been greatly envious that anyone could actually rise to 
such throes of passion. 

Sonja had clawed him fiercely the first time they were together. At the 
time, Jon hadn't minded too much he, too, had surrendered to passion but 
later, when he saw himself in the mirror, he had been furious. After all, 
Jon was an actor. He had a great body and there would surely be upcoming 
scripts which would call for a beautiful physique. If Sonja did that to him 
very often, he'd soon be out of business tanned skin and all. 

Jon made sure she would never do it again. He taught her that no matter how 
passionately spaced-out she might be, she was to use the pillow, not his 
back. He didn't really want to slap the hell out of her as he had another 
earlier broad with similar inclinations. After all, Sonja's living depended 
on her magnificently silken skin and unmarred, chiseled features. She was 
quite a looker for thirty-five, who readily passed for twenty-five, and Jon 
was more than willing to help her perpetuate that illusion. It was, in the 
long run, to his benefit. Sonja knew lots of people. 

He had taken corrective measures the second night. First he had turned her 
on by playing with her melonlike knockers, and then her red-hot cunt giving 
it a lick or two as a sort of promissory note against further payments to 
come. Then, just when she was moaning and begging to be fucked, he had 
pulled her off the bed onto the floor, where he peremptorily pushed her 
blonde head between his legs and ordered her to suck his cock. That wasn't 
unusual because she always sucked cock, and loved every minute of it, but 
this night he told her she should play with herself at the same time because 
she wasn't getting any more fucking. 

"Why the hell not?" she had demanded, her large green eyes widening. "You're 
always able to get it up again, even if I blow you all the way." 

"Not tonight, baby. You're going to remember not to cut me up, no matter how 
excited you get. Now, get that cock in your mouth like a good girl and give 
it a top-notch sucking, or you won't get fucked for a week." 

She had obeyed, taking the rock-hard cock in one hand, licking it gently and 
lightly at first, then covering it with her warm mouth. Finally, after 
prolonged ministration in this manner, she gradually inserted the entire 
shaft into her mouth, moaning with deep satisfaction as she felt the bulbous 
glans lodge in her upper throat. 

"Play with that hot cunt of yours while you're blowing me, baby." 

She obeyed, moving two fingers into the slippery softness between her legs. 

"That's right, baby," he cried, "give it to us both." He began moving his 
hips forcibly forward so as to meet her eager mouth head-on, and she sucked 
faster and faster and played with herself faster and faster until they were 
both beyond containment and exploded into massive, shaking releases. 

But she hadn't believed his earlier threat. After she had attentively and 
lingeringly sucked him dry and licked every last drop of the filmy sweet 
fluid from his softening prick, she began anew. There was really no clear 
separation between the first session and the second, and his cock never 
really left her mouth. Jon did not object at all. Then, more earnestly, it 
seemed, Sonja began applying furious strokes, until his strength was fully 
returned and his turgid cock was, it seemed, larger than ever. 

But then, even after such faithful labor, he hadn't thrust it into her 
aching cunt, despite her pleas. His word was good. He had commanded that she 
continue and then he had burst forth a second time into her mouth. After she 
had swallowed this second load and obediently licked the softening cock dry 
again, she asked, "How can you treat me like this, you sonofabitch?" 

"I told you how it was going to be, baby. But just keep suckin' like you do, 
and I might give you time off for good behavior. You might get fucked sooner 
than you think." 

"It damn well, better be tomorrow," she had retorted, "or I'll find somebody 
else who'll be happy to do the job." 

He had pushed her further than anyone ever had, and Jon was no fool. The 
following night he had impaled her cunt right up to the hilt and ridden her 
forcefully for what seemed like hours. And nowadays he fucked her good and 
hard every night to be certain he was keeping her to himself. He drained her 
of all desire for other men. 

Charlene stood fascinated at the doorway, still undiscovered. She could see 
his hoselike phallus plainly from where she stood and realized that she'd 
never before seen anything so utterly beautiful. Nothing had ever stirred 
her so strangely, pleasantly, as what she had just witnessed. Her own 
fumbling sexual endeavors with young Tom paled by comparison, She had 
thought she felt love and desire for Tom, but it was nothing next to this. 
Now she felt a goose-pimply excitement, a deep yearning, a burning gush of 
heat in her groin. Now she was aware of her empty vagina. She ached. If not 
for a cock, then maybe a hand at least that. Anything to touch her there. 
She could tell she was dripping wet, a condition she had never before 
experienced. At first, she felt almost giddy, and then, to add to her 
already peaked excitement, she saw her mother lean over that fabulously 
lovely male part and lick it with her tongue in slow, long strokes, then put 
her soft pliable lips over its beautiful tip and nibble and kiss it, and 
then suddenly thrust her wide-open mouth down over the whole great staff. 

"Oh, baby," she heard the man groan. "You gotta be the greatest cocksucker 
in the world." 

And then Charlene heard the mixed sounds groans of pleasure and wet sucking 
noises. She licked her own lips and wanted desperately to taste a gorgeous 
cock like that. She had never called it a cock before or thought of it as 
anything but the "thing," but now she fully understood it was a cock. The 
rooster was a cock and he was beautiful when he spread his feathers in 
display. So, too, a displayed man, a cock, was important and beautiful, 
perhaps the most artistically conceived and perfectly created jewel in all 
the world. 

She couldn't stand it any longer. She was weak. She must succumb to the 
situation, she thought. She slid quietly to the floor just as the man was 
beginning to explode into what must have been the most heavenly sort of 
release. She knew that men ejaculated "white stuff and she could hear the 
urgent swallowings as her mother feasted upon the copious load of warm 
semen. 

Then she heard the man moan, "That was the greatest, baby, just the 
greatest. It never felt so good. You always make it feel great, but this 
time you surpassed yourself, Sonja." 

"And, you turned me on like never before, baby," Sonja murmured. "I think 
you made me come twenty times before you even fucked me." 

"You deserve the best, doll. You're the greatest lay I ever had. And 
probably the best blow-job in the whole world." 

Charlene reluctantly realized the scene had ended, and that she'd better 
tiptoe to her room before she was discovered. 

Quietly cleaning up and then finding a pair of baby dolls, she crept into 
bed, where she lay fidgeting for what seemed hours. Sleep just wouldn't come 
because her insides still felt so terribly stirred. She had never thought of 
touching herself down there before, but now she could think of nothing else. 
When she had written a report on sex education in school, she had read that 
all children masturbated, but she couldn't see how that was true since she 
knew she hadn't, or at least, couldn't remember doing it. 

She was as hot as ever, and then, as she relived the scenes she had just 
witnessed vicariously replacing her mother, of course she became even more 
aroused. She couldn't calm down, not even a little bit. There was no 
surcease, no palliative. Not really knowing or understanding why, she found 
herself pulling off her babydoll panties. Without volition, it seemed her 
hand went down to her hot, throbbing wetness. Oh, God, I'm dripping, she 
thought, absolutely dripping. My hand makes me feel better, it comforts me. 
She stroked herself, and then without warning, as if it might be a part of 
someone else's hand, her finger plunged into the wet folds of her vaginal 
lips. Next began a back-and-forth stroking over the taut little clitoris 
which she had always called her "button," but which now seemed to be the 
most centrally important thing in her life. In short minutes she developed 
an expertise which utterly belied her innocence. 

Oh, God, that feels good, she whispered aloud as she began undulating her 
firm buttocks in tempo with her stroking. With her free hand she caressed 
her igloo-like breasts. Oh! God, it's really good! I have never felt so good 
in my life! 

She opened her legs wide, and with two fingers rubbing over her moist crotch 
and into her burning insides, she pretended she was being ministered to by 
that beautiful male body in her mother's bed. Finally she thought perhaps 
she should stop, but found she couldn't. The hand seemed to have a life of 
its own. It just would not stop, just as it knew instinctively exactly what 
to do. Her mother had begged the man Jon, she had called him once to fuck 
her. Yes, that is what she was doing with her fingers: fucking herself. But 
she was pretending it was Jon Jon's fingers, tongue, cock, anything and it 
was the best thing she'd ever felt. She wished she could always feel this 
good. She knew she was just on the verge of something, something 
indefinable, and that it felt wonderful. She was reaching a high peak of 
pleasure that promised to end in something utterly delicious. Her busy 
little hand didn't stop, wouldn't stop, and then she felt an overwhelming 
heat surge through her, take her over. Her spine stiffened. She exploded 
into a million little pieces, and all the while her hand kept on, 
relentlessly, and she kept mounting up into more and more pleasure-able 
little peaks that finally shattered into one tremendous release. 

She lay there, drained, her hand soaked and seemingly glued to her blonde 
pubic hairs, her legs carelessly flopped wide open. 

She slept peacefully and heavily, happy in her very first truly physical 
pleasure, temporarily putting to rest the unhappiness that had brought her 
to her mother's house. 

 CHAPTER TWO 

Sonja responded sleepily to the insistent ringing of the telephone. Jon's 
smooth, tanned body sprawled at her side, oblivious to all but his dreams. 

"Yeah," her voice breathed into the mouthpiece of the phone. She opened one 
eye and glanced in the direction of the clock on her bedside table and 
couldn't believe that anybody would have the audacity to call her at eight 
o'clock on a Saturday morning. 

The familiarity of the voice on the other end jolted her into a complete 
awakening. "Hello, Sonja. Ted. Charlene with you?" 

Sonja bristled at the way her ex-husband always had of making a question 
sound like a statement. She could picture him at the other end of the line, 
self-assuredly patting his dark, trim mustache; tall, slender, perfect in 
his well-pressed slacks. 

"No, of course she is not here with me, you idiot. This is not my weekend, 
remember?" Sonja shot. "And how come you, the 'fit' father, doesn't know 
where his daughter is?" She was always ready to take a jab at him for 
dragging her into court nine years before and winning the custody of their 
small daughter convincing the judge that she was an unfit mother, too 
dedicated to her career; that he, the respectable college professor, could 
make a much better home for a child. 

Unruffled by her retort, he replied, "We had a little spat yesterday morning 
before I left for my first class. When I came home for dinner, Charlene had 
left a message saying she was having dinner at a friend's house. After 
dinner I had an appointment." 

Sonja found herself recoiling more and more as her ex-husband went on 
recoiling not at the information, but at the uncomfortable feeling his 
snide, arrogant voice always induced these days. His stilted style of speech 
had always made Sonja cringe, but now, since the divorce and the subsequent 
custody difficulties, she discovered he was able to produce a physical 
nausea with a few short words. He was continuing, "And when I came home very 
late, I naturally assumed Charlene would be in bed where she belonged. I 
expected Cora, my housekeeper, to know if she wasn't." 

"Why should your housekeeper do your job while you're out on the town?" 
Sonja snapped. "She probably spent the night at Lisa's." 

"Your mind is always a source of amazement to me," Ted replied 
sarcastically. "Naturally, the first thing I did was call Lisa's house. I 
was told Charlene didn't even have dinner there. However, it's possible Lisa 
is lying and does have knowledge of her whereabouts. In any case, before I 
accuse anyone, I thought it wise to check with you." 

"Ted, if anything's happened to my daughter I guarantee I'll rip off your 
balls with my fingernails." 

The unruffled Ted replied easily, "You tried many years ago, my dear, to rip 
off my balls. But they're still there, plump and active." Then, his tone 
changing to one of measured seriousness, he added, "If I thought anything 
had happened to our daughter, I would have the police on the phone right now 
instead of abusing myself like this. Now, why don't you get up off that 
well-screwed ass of yours and see if our daughter is actually there? Or is 
it asking too much for you to get out of bed? I know it's your favorite 
piece of furniture." 

Angry blood rushed to Sonja's head. "All right, you pompous prick, I'll 
look. But I'll tell you one thing first" 

"You always wanted to tell me one thing first. And it's always in that 
undeniably picturesque but limited language of yours. I will now address you 
in terms you cannot fail to understand. Get up off your fucking ass and look 
for Charlene. I'll hang on." 

"You do that!" Then, determined to have the last word, she added, "But you 
can bet I wouldn't have my sixteen-year-old daughter running away from home 
because I treated her like a twelve-year-old." She threw the phone down and 
jumped out of bed. 

Jon, awake by now, watched her tall, well-endowed body slip into a negligee 
and bounce out of the bedroom. 

The door to Charlene's room was closed, suspicious in itself. She always 
left it open when Charlene wasn't there open, symbolically inviting the 
girl's next visit. Could the wind have slammed it shut? 

She stopped thoughtfully before opening the door and considered the 
situation. Could Charlene have walked in last night while she and Jon were 
making love? If so, had she witnessed the lovemaking? And, that being the 
case, what might she have seen? A little fucking? A little sucking? Well, so 
what? Charlene would be a woman soon if she wasn't already. Sex was 
something she'd better learn the right way instead of fucking up her life 
with some backwoods jerk the way most girls did. 

Sonja firmly believed young girls of her own era had been intimidated, 
confused, frightened, and then, finally, sexually dried up by all the 
nightmarish taboos forced upon them by their mothers and society. It was, in 
fact, something of a miracle that she herself had finally disentangled her 
own life to the point that she could enjoy it. Thank God, she thought, over 
and over again, for the fashion industry and the way the breaks had fallen. 
She had not only been able to make her way without the stuffy bastard now 
waiting on the phone, but had also discovered the joys her body afforded 
her. Well, with Charlene, shortcuts would be taken. Sonja would be 
instrumental in opening the doors to the fashion world, and, as for sex 
well, why not? Sonja suddenly discovered herself hoping Charlene had 
witnessed the whole episode with Jon. 

Charlene could go places in the fashion world. With her face she could 
become the top cover girl in the country. There was no end to what she could 
do, but to do it she'd better know how to use her assets to best advantage. 
Beauty alone was not enough. She'd better know how to get and keep a man 
until she was through with him. She'd better know all the tricks. What 
better lesson could she have than to witness her own mother in action? 

Charlene was waiting, wide-eyed, in her bed. She had heard her mother's 
ranting and then she had heard the padded footsteps approaching her door. 
Then nothing. She knew her mother was standing just outside. Why didn't she 
enter? Would she be angry to find her there? No, not that. Her mother was 
always happy to see her. However, this was the first time she had ever 
arrived unannounced. Maybe her mother actually was temperamental, volatile, 
vociferous all those things Dad called her but Charlene couldn't remember 
Sonja ever becoming really angry with her. With Dad, yes almost every night 
for the first seven years of her life she had heard screaming and ranting 
and raving, and Dad's quiet voice in the background saying things like, "Try 
not to sound like the fishwife you are," or, "Your breeding is showing, my 
dear." And with each insult from her father, her mother had become more 
enraged. 

But she had never seen her father lose his temper, not, that is, until 
yesterday morning. She shuddered with the memory. Her mother's flare-ups 
were pale in comparison. 

The door opened. Sonja stood there in a thin black negligee, honey-blonde 
hair falling loose to the shoulders, utterly lovely even without make-up, 
Charlene thought. 

Sonja let out a sigh of relief and strode to the bed to hug her daughter. 
"Baby, thank God you're here. I was so worried when your father told me you 
had disappeared." For some reason not apparent to Sonja Charlene overreacted 
as her mother embraced her, touching her shoulder. 

Nothing went over Sonja. "What's the matter, baby?" she asked, as she lifted 
the puffed sleeve of Charlene's nightie. The girl's shoulder was bruised 
with an ugly green and yellow welt. 

"Who did this to you?" she demanded. 

Charlene lay hard against her pillow, unable to answer. She knew her mother 
would be quite capable of going immediately to West-wood Village and putting 
a bullet through her father's head. 

Then Charlene saw something she had seen only once before when the judge had 
decreed the father, not the mother, would have custody of the seven-year-old 
child. She saw tears well up in her mother's eyes. 

Then they were in each other's arms, both crying. It lasted but an instant, 
and then Sonja withdrew, her tears suddenly replaced by a cold anger. She 
pulled the covers down and began to professionally examine her daughter's 
body. She found another bruise on her left thigh and ugly red welts on her 
usually unblemished young buttocks. "That cocksucker," she muttered under 
her breath. 

"Okay, baby, tell mother about it," she said, turning the girl over again, 
covering her. 

Charlene sucked in her breath and gave her mother an appraising look. Never 
before had she seen her mother in such a cold, stony anger. Storming and 
shouting she was used to, but this was altogether new. What was happening? 
Her father always before cool and controlled and her mother always before 
the one so quick to express rage seemed to have reversed their roles. Now 
there was murder in her mother's light green, slightly slanted eyes. 
Furthermore, when her mother spoke next, it was clear she wanted direct 
answers. "Charlene, let me have it straight. From the beginning." 

Charlene told the story. Her father had been rummaging for aspirin when he 
came across her birth control pills. She hadn't even considered hiding them 
he'd never come into her bathroom before, much less examined her medicine 
chest. 

He had stalked into her room and demanded, "Where did you get these pills, 
Charlene?" He was holding the small bottle. The blood drained from her face. 
She could do nothing but stare at him, at the half-full container. 

He stepped forward and slapped her across the face. "Answer me, Goddamnit!" 
He had never before slapped her. 

She was dumbfounded, stunned. And then she began crying. 

"Well?" he repeated, still enraged. 

"You slapped me!" Charlene accused. 

"Of course I did, you slut. Now answer me!" 

It was all Charlene could do to gather her voice. When she did speak, it 
came out as a defensive scream. "A friend gave them to me." 

Then, gathering steam, somehow realizing she was better off on the 
offensive, she asked a question of her own. "What right do you have snooping 
around in my medicine chest? I'm just keeping them for a friend." 

"You're lying, you little bitch." He had never, never used such invective 
before. The tears poured out faster than ever. 

"What friend?" he demanded. 

She didn't answer. 

"A name, please." 

Again silence. 

He hit her on the arm. She slumped to the bed. 

"All right. The name of the boy you're screwing! Right now!" He hit her 
again, this time with his doubled fist against her thigh. 

By this time, Charlene wasn't even conscious of the fact that her father was 
using such vile language. She responded, as if by reflex, "Leave me alone. 
I'm not doing anything. I'm not doing anything bad!" 

"Is it that Goddamned long-haired Beldon kid?" 

"His hair isn't that long!" she blurted. "So, it is him!" 

Then unceremoniously, he pulled her over his knee as if she were an 
eight-year-old. He spanked and spanked with a rigid, furious hand, until she 
screamed for mercy. Then, finally, he threw her down on the bed with 
explicit threats of what he would do if she fooled around any more. The 
episode ended as he stalked out of the house, still enraged. 

Sonja had remained quiet until Charlene finished her story. Then she asked, 
"When you ran away, Charlene, was it a matter of being impetuous or was it 
thought out:planned? I mean, are you here permanently?" 

"I'll never go back, Mother," Charlene answered, breaking into tears again. 
"I'm afraid of him of what he'll do to me if he gets mad again. I've never 
seen him like that. I don't know him any more." 

"All right, baby," Sonja soothed. She patted the girl's golden hair down and 
away from her tear-stained face. "Everything will be all right." 

"I knew what I was doing, Mother. I couldn't pack a bag because Cora would 
have seen me leave with it. But I really did come to stay." 

"All right, darling. Now, tell me, what'd you do all day? Why didn't you 
call me immediately?" 

"I did, Mother. You were working on a commercial. I just didn't leave a 
message with your service." 

Damn! Sonja thought. What luck! I wasn't there when my daughter needed me. 
For a moment Sonja felt as if the fates were conspiring against her, but 
then she dismissed the thought. 

"What did you do then, honey?" 

"After I managed to pull myself together, I called Tom and we took a drive 
to the beach and talked. I had to have somebody to talk to, Mom... " 

"Of course you did." 

Charlene continued, "It wasn't just the scene today, Mom. I mean, Dad never 
hit me before, but he's always been so strict it's always been an event in 
my life to get out of the house. Whenever I could. Any way I could." 

"He's a hypocritical monster. Besides, a girl needs her mother when she goes 
through puberty and adolescence. That judge should have had his balls fed 
into a meat-grinder." 

Charlene couldn't help smiling. Her mother's descriptions were so colorful, 
her language so honest. Whatever she was, she was not a hypocrite. 

Sonja's mind was now clicking at full speed. Not only did it hurt her to see 
her daughter abused especially by that prick it enraged her to think 
Charlene might have been marred professionally. Bruises on the arms or legs 
would prevent Charlene from modeling bathing suits, welts on her fresh young 
buttocks would keep her from a nude centerfold. Goddamn him, she thought, 
his cock should be threaded on an icepick. But at least one good thing would 
come out of all this. She would get her daughter back. Maybe it wouldn't be 
legal custody, but it didn't matter as long as they were reunited. A quick 
thought flashed in her mind. 

"Stay where you are, baby. I'll be right back." Sonja sailed out the door. 

When she returned, she led Jon with one hand and carried a Polaroid camera 
in the other. 

Charlene, despite herself, felt a little flutter in her tummy at the sight 
of Jon so rugged-looking, dark hair still rumpled from sleep, just a towel 
wrapped around his manly waist. 

Sonja whipped the covers off Charlene and began to pull her nightie up over 
her head. 

"Mother! What're you doing?" Charlene clutched the fabric to her chest. 

"Do you want to go back to your father?" 

"No!" Charlene wailed protestingly. 

"Well, we're going to get some photographs of the damage and in living 
color. Now be a good girl and let's get this off." 

Charlene reluctantly allowed her mother to lift her gown, then lay there, 
covering her breasts. She gave a sidelong glance in Jon's direction. He had 
a devilish grin on his face. 

"You'd better get over this shyness if you're going to become a model, 
sweetie." 

Charlene's blue eyes opened wide. "But am I, Mother? Dad wants me to be a 
schoolteacher." 

Sonja snorted. 

"Let's get one of the arm like this," Jon said, pulling Charlene's hands 
away from her young firm breasts and plumping the pillow behind her. 

"Wait a minute," Sonja said. She fanned Charlene's long golden hair over the 
pillow and tilted her face at a three-quarter angle. Her upthrust breasts 
peaked out from beyond the bruised arm. "Perfect. Get a real close-up of the 
bruise." 

Jon crouched down beside the bed in order to get just the upper portion of 
Charlene's body. And then, although she wasn't really looking, Charlene 
caught sight of the head of his large penis as the towel parted. A tremor 
rippled through her. The camera clicked. 

After sixty seconds he pulled off the developing strip. 

"My, God, she's photogenic," Sonja said as she examined the photograph. 

"Let me see," Charlene said, forgetting her exposed breasts, jumping out of 
bed. When she saw the picture, she let out a little "Oh," obviously pleased 
with her likeness. 

"Okay, baby, off with the panties," Sonja said, leaning forward and giving a 
quick yank, leaving Charlene with nothing on except an ankle-hugging film of 
rayon. 

"Mother! Must I?" 

"You betcha. We're going to get some great shots of those bruises and welts 
before they have a chance to fade. On the bed with you." She gave Charlene a 
gentle push and whisked the panties all the way off. At this point, Jon 
entered the activity. 

"Let's have her like this," he said, arranging Charlene languorously across 
the bed on her back, with nothing protecting her proud young pubis from his 
eyes pulling the bruised leg up, adding a soft caress to her inner thigh. 

A thrill shot through Charlene like an arrow. She sucked in her breath and 
hoped he wouldn't notice the effect he had just had on her. 

The camera clicked again. They waited for sixty more seconds to tick off. 

"I just remembered," Sonja announced, heading for the door, "I left your 
fucking father hanging on the line. I'd better get back to him and let him 
know what I think of all this. Go ahead with the next one, will you, Jon?" 

Charlene looked both pathetic and appealing her long slender legs draped 
loosely, the large bruise brilliant against her peach-colored flesh. 

"Okay, baby," he said, turning her over onto her stomach, letting his hand 
brush by her soft blonde pubic hairs as he lay her across a pillow. Charlene 
thought she would die from inner excitement. 

In her bedroom, Sonja was hissing into the phone. "You motherfucker, how 
dare you beat that child?" 

"You're overdramatizing, as usual," Ted replied, his voice calm. "Charlene 
got a well-deserved spanking, that's all." 

"Bullshit! Who are you to sit up there on your turd-covered throne and pass 
judgment?" 

"I am her father. And don't forget it!" His voice was firm, confident. But 
somewhere beneath this cocksure exterior, Sonja could detect an uncertain 
wavering. 

She smiled. She was getting to him. She tapped a cigarette out of the pack 
on her bedside table. "I suppose you'd like your daughter to be too dumb to 
take birth control pills and get knocked up then be stuck with an asshole 
like you for the rest of her life." She calmly lit her cigarette. 

"I expect my daughter to behave like a lady. I don't want her to grow up in 
your whorish footsteps." His voice was now considerably louder than usual, 
confirming her confidence. Sonja smiled to herself as she waited. She knew 
what would come next. 

"Oh! Wait a minute. Now I get it. You supplied her with those pills." 

"You're getting smart in your old age. I did indeed give her the pills. And 
I did it on her doctor's advice. He could see, even if you couldn't, that 
she's growing up." 

"You filthy bitch!" he rasped. Then he regained his control. "I'm not going 
to argue with you. Get Charlene ready. I'll pick her up in an hour." 

"Good. That'll give me time to have the police here, waiting." Sonja felt 
enthralled as she prepared to play her last trump card. 

"Police! What do you mean?" 

"Just exactly that." 

"Just exactly what?" 

"Listen, you prick, and listen good. I have beautiful color shots of that 
poor battered child. I also have a witness, and I would just love to have 
the police here, as witnesses, too put it in their report, take you in. 
Nothing could give me greater pleasure. So please hurry over." 

There was a long silence. "It wouldn't stick," he finally replied. 

"Wanna bet? I've got evidence. I even have enough contacts to get it in the 
papers. I can see the headlines now. College Professor Booked for Child 
Abuse. I'm sure the dean would love to keep you on after that." 

There was a momentary silence. Then, in a low, deliberate voice, he asked, 
"What do you want?" 

Sonja took the last drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out. What a 
satisfaction! she thought. She had won. 

"I want my daughter here with me. Furthermore, this is where she wants to 
be. If you must be dragged through mud before you'll give her up, then I'll 
do that, too. She'll never go back with you even if I have to take her to 
juvenile court and have the judge appoint a temporary guardian. But you'll 
be ruined in the process." 

"Be reasonable, Sonja." His voice was smoother now silky, oily, conniving. 
"You know very well this is the first time I've hit her. I am certainly not 
a child beater because of one spanking" 

"Spanking?!" Sonja cut in. "That was a beating! It was brutal!" A pause. 
Then, "It won't happen again." 

"You're fucking right it won't happen again. Because she won't be with you 
again!" 

"Now, just a minute. What about her future? She was going to go to college 
this fall and get a teaching degree." 

"Big deal! Why in the hell should that beautiful kid become a dried-up 
schoolmarm when she can make ten times more money becoming a model maybe an 
actress." 

"Look, she's got brains. Why do you want her to follow in your worn-out 
footsteps?" 

"I haven't done badly. And Charlene will do even better. She won't have to 
struggle to learn the ropes the way I did because she'll have me to give her 
a head start. She'll be seventeen in November. That gives her only one year 
and four months until she'll be legally of age. I suggest that if you don't 
want to lose her completely you back off and send me a notarized statement 
that she can remain with me until she's eighteen." 

"Why don't you stop being a vengeful, selfish bitch, and do what's best for 
the child?" he snapped, making his last stand. 

"I am doing what's best for the child," Sonja snapped back. She just 
couldn't remain cool for very long when speaking to this man. "And you don't 
kid me for one fucking second. I know what your problem is. You couldn't 
stand the idea of her having a little sex with that harmless boy because you 
want to fuck her yourself!" 

"What kind of a sick remark is that?" Ted shouted into the phone. He was 
beaten, his control completely gone. 

"When you pulled her little lacy panties down to spank her, you probably 
came in your own!" 

"You miserable cunt!" 

His phone went dead with a slam. Sonja, calmer now than she could ever 
remember, put her own instrument softly into its cradle. 

She smiled. Maybe she hadn't ripped Ted's balls off, but she had sure as 
hell given them a mighty painful twist. 

"Okay. That's enough, baby," Jon said, giving Charlene a gentle caress on 
her red rump. "Boy, your old man sure gave it to ya." Impulsively he lowered 
his lips to one of the red welts and let a gentle kiss linger there. "If I 
was your old man, I'd only shower you with kisses. You're really a sweet 
kid." 

He felt her tremble in his arms and turned her gently on her back. He kissed 
her on the forehead, the eyelids, the cheeks, then fully on her soft, 
pliable mouth. She felt his tongue touch hers and found herself responding 
as she never had with Tom. She sucked on his tongue as she had seen her 
mother do the night before on this very person's cock, then she put her own 
tongue into his mouth exploring timidly at first, and then, as the act 
became more natural, searchingly. His hands drifted to her full young 
breasts, then one hand moved surely down the even terrain of her flat 
stomach to the silken pubic hairs, and then farther still to the inside of 
her satiny thighs. 

Charlene moaned with anticipation and parted her legs instinctively. The 
hand, as she had hoped it would, found its way into the open wet folds. The 
fingers slid over her creamy little pearl, and then his middle finger found 
its way into her warm depths. Charlene held her arms tightly around Jon's 
neck in complete acceptance. 

Slowly he released his mouth from hers and moved it down her chin, then her 
neck, to one pink-nippled areola where he sucked and nibbled gently, on down 
with his tongue to her tummy, licking, nibbling, brushing her fair flesh 
with his lips, over the sweet furry mound and on into the warmth of her 
responsive thighs. 

She was undulating her slim, curved hips sensuously when, at last, his warm 
mouth found her succulent lower lips. At first, when she realized that his 
mouth and lips were really licking at her vagina her open, pulled-apart 
vagina she felt an impulse to jerk away, not because she was shocked or 
because it was new, but simply because she had been with Tom the night 
before and she could remember his young thunder bursts of semen shooting 
into her with the volume and power of a geyser. Three separate times one 
after another! My God, she thought, I must be full of it! But just then Jon 
hit a particularly sensitive spot and she managed to forget the whole thing. 

Again fully relaxed, she sighed with pleasure as he sucked and licked and 
flicked his tongue against the taut little jewel. It felt like velvet 
against her. She moaned and whimpered with delight she was his to do with as 
he pleased. A gush of heat filled her whole being on the peak of ecstasy and 
she began to involuntarily shiver, then tremble, then shake in great 
torrents of release. 

So this was what it was really all about, she thought vaguely. And then her 
mind went blank again as he unrelentingly sucked and lapped at her 
sweetness. She rolled on and on, mindless now, into the land of the 
indescribable multiple orgasm. 

It was during this last release from glorious agony that Sonja with good 
news on the tip of her tongue returned to Charlene's room. She stopped in 
her tracks as she saw her daughter and lover. Her first reaction was one of 
combined shock and jealousy; but it didn't last long. Strangely, she found 
herself viewing the scene as if Charlene were only an extension of her own 
secret being. 

She regained what composure she had lost. Her mind quickly computed: It'll 
be good for Charlene to learn the finesse of lovemaking. It'll help her to 
conduct herself with men who'll be important to her future. Just so long as 
she doesn't get hung up with Jon. And just so long as Jon has enough left 
for me. 

As Sonja went discreetly to her room to lay out delicate plans for her 
daughter's career, Sonja's lover went about not so discreetly the very 
delicate business of laying her daughter. 

Sid Morris appraised Charlene approvingly. Sonja's little girl was a lovely 
little piece all right, as well as a perfect size ten for his sportswear 
line. He remembered when Sonja had begun her own modeling career with 
Hollywood Sunwear eighteen years ago. His business was new then and Sonja 
was a great asset. Many was the time she'd go out with a big buyer and help 
swing the sale. Now, at the very least, he felt he would have owed it to 
Sonja to hire her little girl even if she hadn't been a knockout. But this 
was really a stroke of luck. The girl had nicely rounded ski-slope breasts, 
just the right size for a bikini. Most these models if thin enough through 
the middle and hips were usually too flat-chested. And her little ass curved 
out nicelyjust right to make a bikini look good, but not enough to make it 
vulgar. That was the trouble; girls either had nothing in a bathing suit or 
else they looked like they were pouring out of it. But no matter how the 
ultimate customers actually looked, if the buyers saw the suits on somebody 
like Charlene they bought them by the warehouseful. You had to understand 
psychology in this business if you planned to last. For every manufacturer 
that made it, five went broke. 

Charlene was walking and pivoting for Mr. M. as he was called just exactly 
the way Sonja had taught her. Actually, Charlene had been reluctant to try 
out for Mr. Morris cold, and had asked her mother if she might not take a 
lesson or two at a modeling school. 

"Hell, no!" Sonja had replied. "That's a lot of shit. Especially when you've 
got a mother like me. Those schools are for kids who have slobs for 
mothers... or for overweight girls... or girls who don't stand up straight 
or walk well... or don't know how to do their hair or make-up. Your hair is 
natural and your make-up is perfect. And you're doubly fortunate to have 
inherited my complexion on top of which you've the most magnificent coloring 
one could have for sportswear. Nothing's worse than having a girl to model 
play clothes who looks like she's just been dunked in a pot of white flour. 
She should look like she goes to the beach and plays tennis and rides a 
bike. And that's just what you do." 

"But what about the actual modeling, Mom?" 

"You have the carriage of a princess, and no modeling school in the world 
can give you that. You're born with it. And if I can't teach you the actual 
turning and pivoting and how to show the clothes to best advantage, then I 
should turn in my mannequin's badge. Remember, I taught at Lenore Lee 
Worth's School of Modeling when I was pregnant with you." 

Charlene came out of her reverie when Mr. M. patted her on the fanny. "Okay, 
babe, you've got the job. We bring out a line six times a year, and I can 
use you about a month each time to show and then be fitted for the next 
line. That'll take care of half your year's income." 

Then, pausing in his enthusiastic spiel, realizing, it seemed, the need for 
something a bit more personal, he went on, "You know, Charlene, you sure do 
look a lot like your mother did when she was your age... and, I hope you 
understand, that is really quite a compliment." 

He led her by the arm back to the dressing room where the other model was 
writing out tags for a future line. She wore a blue smock, carelessly open, 
and didn't seem overly concerned about modesty. Panties and bare breasts 
were plainly visible. 

"Joyce," Sid Morris said, introducing the girls with a gesture of the hand, 
"this is Charlene. She'll wear all the bikinis and low-cut lounge-wear. Show 
her where to put her things and then take her to Ruth for measurements." 
Turning to Charlene, he continued, "Can you start tomorrow, honey? I hope 
so, because you're just in time to get some of the holiday line cut on you." 

"Sure, Mr. Morris. Whenever you say." She still felt a little overwhelmed by 
all this. She had shown up at her mother's the previous Friday and it was 
just Monday now. A miracle of sorts a weekend of icepacks, of sunning by the 
pool, a little make-up and presto: no bruises. 

"Okay, babe. Nine to five, an hour for lunch, and a hundred and fifty a 
week. Give your Mom my love and tell her to drop by sometime." 

"She would have brought me today, but she had to have a fitting for the 
March Company fashion show. 

 CHAPTER THREE 

You know the Paris imports." 

After he left, Joyce said, "Come on, big boobs. I'll show you the joint." 

"Why do you say big boobs?" Charlene asked, very surprised. She had nice, 
well-rounded, quite adequate breasts which had been the envy of her girl 
friends, but they certainly weren't big. 

"Because Mr. M. wants you to model all the things that need big boobs. You 
know, swim-wear, low-cut things. Come on." Joyce stood up and led Charlene 
to a closet at the other end of the dressing room. "This is where you'll put 
your own clothes." Joyce opened the closet and Charlene could see a few 
items of clothing, presumably Joyce's. 

"And what're these things?" Charlene asked, indicating a long rack in front 
of the closet that was filled with modish shorts, blouses, slacks, several 
bikinis, and even a few long skirts and dresses. 

"That's the line we're showing right now," Joyce explained. "Don't forget to 
hang up each piece carefully after showing, even if you have to rush into 
the next item. Otherwise, Judith will have a fit." 

"Who's Judith?" 

"She's Mr. M.'s right hand sort of a gal Friday. Didn't you see her flitting 
around while you were showing for Mr. M.?" 

"Oh, yes," Charlene answered, recalling the birdlike creature who had 
appeared briefly while she was walking and turning for Mr. Morris. 

"Don't let her fragility fool you," Joyce said. "She's as tough as leather, 
and Mr. M. doesn't make a move without her." 

Then, turning in another direction, Joyce went on, "Come on, kiddo, I have 
to take you to the fitting room so Ruth can get your measurements. Take that 
off," she said, indicating the bathing suit. "Just leave on your 
underpants." 

Charlene did as she was told, but asked, "Is there a smock for me?" 

"No, but you'll have one tomorrow. Come on." 

"Well, I'd better put my dress back on, then. I can't walk out of here in 
these." Charlene looked downward, indicating her blue-white, see-through 
mesh panties. 

"Sure you can. The fitting room's just around the corner. Nobody pays any 
attention around here." 

"But suppose a buyer... " Charlene didn't have a chance to complete the 
sentence, for Joyce wearily took her by the hand and led her, bare boobs and 
all, out of the dressing room, down a short corridor, and into a large room 
which was teeming with activity. There were, first of all, quite a few 
oversized wooden cutting tables, rows of sewing-machine tables, attended by 
little ladies speeding away on them; there were ironing boards, and irons, 
half-clad mannequin forms, and material piled all over the place. 

This was where it all happened, Charlene decided. With all these people 
busily fitting, cutting, sewing, pressing, a piece of fabric could become a 
lovely creation. And from bolts of material, the creation was multiplied 
into a blossoming of fashion. 

Ruth, the fitter, appeared, wearing a tape measure for a necklace. "This is 
Charlene, Ruth," Joyce introduced. "Our new model." 

The fitter, a slip of a woman, smiled with uneven teeth and said, "Charlene, 
is it? Good. Well, you should do fine here, dear. You've a perfect body. It 
will be a pleasure to work with you." 

"Oh, thank you," Charlene answered. She knew instinctively she would get on 
with Ruth. 

Charlene spent a little more time getting acquainted, getting the feel of 
the place, poking her nose into all the corners, feeling out some of the 
people, sensing she must try to become "one of the family." She tried, for 
example, to understand the momentary discomfiture she noticed on Joyce's 
face when Ruth complimented Charlene's figure. She wondered if perhaps Joyce 
was one of those girls who had great difficulty maintaining their weight 
and, if so, was she in for some competitive, professional jealousies? She 
hoped not, because she had instinctively liked Joyce just as she had Ruth 
even though she did detect a certain indifference in the other model. At 
this point of the game, Charlene was quite ready to be friends with 
everyone. And petty jealousies she could certainly do without. 

Finally she felt it was time to leave. Jon would be waiting downstairs in 
the coffee shop, or if all "coffeed" out in the car. As she was going out 
the door, she heard Mr. M. ask Joyce to start showing the line. A big buyer 
from Kansas had just arrived. Tomorrow, she thought, I will be a part of 
this whole, exciting business. 

Charlene walked out of the building on Los Angeles Street into the 
smog-filled morning and blinked into the hazy sun. She wondered if she would 
be able to survive the air day after day, working in this part of town. At 
least in Westwood Village she could look up and see blue. 

Jon was waiting in the open convertible. He looked ruggedly handsome, face 
tanned and dark hair offsetting the whole perfectly. 

"Hi, kid," he grinned. "Don't tell me. I know you got the job by your 
smile." 

"I sure did," Charlene said, jumping in. "And not just because of my mother, 
either. Those clothes fit like they'd been made for me." 

Jon gunned the motor and sped away, taking a peculiar route. 

"Hey, aren't you going to take the freeway home?" She looked at him 
quizzically. 

"Nah, what's the hurry? Sonja won't be home this early. We have a couple of 
hours." He looked at her, his sexy face making all sorts of mysterious 
promises. Without further preliminaries, he reached over and put his hand 
high on her thigh. "Hey, you've got pants on!" 

"Of course, did you think I'd go job-hunting bare-assed, as my mother would 
put it?" 

"Well, you're not job-hunting now, baby. Come on, take them off. Don't you 
want to feel my hand on that hot, chubby dripping cunt?" 

Charlene felt a now-familiar thrill ripple through her as she cooperatively 
removed her panties. Involuntarily she spread her legs wide open in the 
topless convertible as Jon drove unevenly up toward Sunset Boulevard. 

"God, what a sweet, wet pussy you have, baby. He took his hand away and 
licked his fingers. "Oh, don't take your hand away like that," Charlene 
moaned. 

"I'm not stopping, baby," he said as he thrust his hand back under her 
skirt. His fingers found her clitoris, and then also explored deep within 
her oily emptiness. 

She was leaning back against the leather seat, eyes closed, body undulating 
sensuously, when a truck pulled up alongside them at a stop signal. 

"Harder, deeper!" Charlene implored. 

"Easy, girl," Jon warned. "We've got cars all around us. And a truck right 
next to us on your side." He moved to extract his hand again. 

"No, no!" Charlene exhorted. "I don't care, I don't care at all. Just don't 
stop." Jon thought a moment, and then shrugged his shoulders. 

Horns honked and short-tempered people cursed as Charlene languorously 
completed a beautiful orgasm in full view of the truck-driver. 

As the light turned green a second time, traffic proceeded at a very slow 
and quiet pace, disturbed only by the grinding of gears from a missed shift 
in the huge Diesel. 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

Sid Morris sat at his large oak desk behind the closed door of his private 
office. He didn't seem able to keep his mind on his work this morning. It 
was one of those rare summer days when the skies over downtown Los Angeles 
were clear and beautiful. It gave him a feeling of spring fever, of 
nostalgia. 

He ran his hands through his thick hair, still black except for striking 
threads of gray at the temples. He patted his stomach. Not bad, he thought, 
for fifty-six. Just a small paunch. And, after all, his six-foot-two frame 
could stand it. 

He looked around his office with an appraising eye. He'd done well. Very 
well. It hadn't taken him long to learn. No, sir, not Sid Morris. Once, just 
once, he had been a loser, but now he was long recouped from that. Trouble, 
back then, was that he had been ahead of the times. He'd taken that fancy 
trip to Paris and foolishly paid a fortune for a few models from the top 
Paris couturiers. He then had them copied, cut, and made up for the American 
fall line. Shouldn't have tried such a big undertaking on a shoe string 
better to have tucked his designer under his arm and gotten into the Paris 
salons, posing as wealthy Texans, and stolen the designs. Not to the last 
detail, of course that would have been dangerous but just close enough 
copying so they'd resemble the originals. A little unethical, perhaps, but 
at least he wouldn't have lost his shirt. 

Oh, well, it had all turned out for the best. Adelle was a good wife and 
mother and they had a good marriage. Marrying her had made it easier for him 
to live his own life. She was a placid woman and unaware of or, perhaps, 
indifferent to the numerous girl friends he'd had throughout the years. 
Besides, it had been her old man's money that had given him a second start. 
Wasn't that old curmudgeon surprised the day Sid returned his loan which he 
never expected to see again and with interest? All her father had wanted was 
to make his plain, but nice, daughter happy with a good husband. Sid had 
never even pretended to be in love with Adelle not even at the outset but he 
had been determined to have the best Goddamn line of casual clothes in the 
country, and to do it he had had to find a new grubstake somewhere, and by 
God he had done just that. And now things were looking up really up. Oh, he 
had to admit there was a thorn in the cloth Leisure Line, his big 
competitor. He and they ran neck and neck, but, somehow, he'd soon shove 
them down into a firm second place. Make book on it! 

A timid tap at his office door brought Sid fully awake from his daydreaming. 

"Come in." 

Joyce appeared at the open door and quickly closed it behind her, snapping 
the lock as she did so. "Mr. M.," she said in a small voice, "do you have a 
few minutes?" 

Sid glanced up sharply from the papers he was now scanning. Wouldn't do to 
have the help catch him day-dreaming, he thought. 

"I always have a few minutes for you, Joyce," he said, returning his eyes to 
his papers. 

She approached the desk slowly, letting her smock fall open as she did. But 
the view of her well-rounded braless body in the flesh-colored panties was 
lost on Sid. He didn't raise his eyes again. "Sit down, sit down," he 
gestured with his hand. 

But Joyce didn't sit down. She pressed her body against his desk and leaned 
forward over it, exposing her small but well-proportioned breasts to best 
advantage. 

"Mr. M., none of the new line has been fitted on me yet." There was a waver 
in her voice. "How come?" 

"I told them to leave your fittings for last, Joyce." Sid said, not 
unkindly. "To give you time to get that extra inch off your hips." 

"Oh, Mr. M., they can go ahead and fit me anyway because it'll be off by the 
time the samples are ready. I swear." She added this last with passion. 

"Well, you know, our headstrong designer likes to see the material fall the 
way she indicates in the drawings. So I thought I'd just leave your samples 
for last." 

Joyce gave up her enticing pose and moved around the desk where she slid to 
the floor at Sid's feet. "Oh, Mr. M., you wouldn't give Charlene the 
permanent job just because I've added one inch, would you?" She slid her 
hand affectionately up his pants leg. 

Sid knew that Joyce, at only eighteen, had a large load to carry. She was 
fatherless, almost motherless, since the woman was so sickly, and had two 
young brothers to help support. Of course, Joyce could always get another 
job with another manufacturer who cut his samples larger, but it might not 
be steady. And she'd never get as large a salary. He'd found many years ago 
that it was just plain good business to pay five or ten dollars over the 
industry average. It was little enough extra compared to what one got for 
it: prettier girls who would work harder. Plus, perhaps, a few of their 
favors. Just as he thought this, Joyce moved her hand from his pants leg to 
his zipper. 

"You needn't concern yourself about your job, Joyce," he answered. 

Her cool hand reached into his undershorts and brought out his large, but 
limp, penis. He patted her affectionately on the head. "You're a nice, loyal 
girl. And a good model, too," But, he thought to himself, you have to keep 
the best of 'em in line, or they'll take advantage, eat candy bars all day 
instead of cocks. 

He felt her warm lips encase his cock. He leaned back in his swivel chair 
and closed his eyes. Guess he'd had too many pretty girls, he thought. 
Getting jaded. He felt her mouth pump up and down on him, trying desperately 
to make him hard. Seemed as if it just didn't mean anything any more having 
Joyce go down on him. Now, if this were Charlene! But he hadn't gotten the 
message across to the new girl during her first week of employment. He 
supposed he'd have to make it clear pretty soon, but in the meantime, this 
was it. He could feel his cock getting bigger and harder just thinking about 
Charlene, irrespective of who was doing the actual work. 

Joyce licked and sucked industriously while Sid, with eyes closed, floated 
on in his fantasy, imagining it was Charlene who was attending him. 

It worked. He poured, it seemed to him, a pint of semen intoCharlene's?sexy 
mouth. 

Joyce sucked and swallowed and licked him dry. Then, as she tucked it back 
into his pants, he caressed her cheek and said, "You're a good girl, Joyce." 
It was the first time he had looked directly at her since she had begun. 

She looked up gratefully. "Thank you, Mr. M." 

"Go back to work now. And don't worry. Just stick to your high protein diet 
and everything'll be fine." 

"Yes, Mr. M." Joyce stood up and tied her robe. Sid returned to his papers. 

Charlene put on the elegant wine-colored pant-suit. God, it was gorgeous, 
she thought. Retailed for sixty dollars, but she could buy everything for 
half price. Of course, if she waited until they didn't need it any longer 
she could probably talk Mr. M. into selling the sample for a lot less. But 
what the hell, she was earning good money, why not have it now? Or maybe in 
a couple of weeks, when it could be cut and sewn with another order. 

"Hey, Charlene, you better get your fanny out there. Mr. Hershfield doesn't 
like to be kept waiting," Joyce said as she entered the dressing room, 
unbuttoning the creation she had been showing. "Okay." 

Charlene pranced through the curtains into the showroom. Mr. M. was sitting 
next to a "big" buyer, a certain Mr. Hershfield. Charlene knew he was a big 
buyer, otherwise Mr. M. would have put him in the hands of one of the 
regular salesmen. 

"Here's a beautiful number for you, Hershey," Sid offered, almost fawning. 

"I'll say she is," Hershfield answered, giving Charlene an all-encompassing 
once-over. Then, as if not seeing the apparel at all, but only the girl in 
it, and also seemingly oblivious to the onlookers, Hershfield spoke directly 
to Charlene. "It's kinda lonely being away from home, honey," he stated, in 
a Midwestern drawl. "How about having dinner with me tonight?" 

Charlene replied simply, "I'm sorry, Mr. Hershfield. I can't." 

Sid Morris's face revealed nothing. 

"Why the hell can't ya?" Hershfield snapped. He was obviously used to having 
his way. 

All the while Charlene had been turning and walking to show how the pantsuit 
moved with the body. "That's all right, Charlene, go put on the next 
number," Sid cut in. He patted Hershfield's arm as Charlene walked out and 
then said in a low voice, "Calm down, Hershey. I'll take care of it." 

"Well, I don't want her if she's going to be snotty." 

"She isn't going to be snotty. She's going to be charming. You're going to 
have a wonderful time. Now, that number she was wearing is going to be a 
real winner comes in four shades wine, forest green, rust, and camel. How 
many do you think you can use?" 

"No idea right now. I'll let you know tomorrow." Hershfield was wearing a 
dour expression as he said this last. 

After the girls had shown the complete line, Charlene was summoned to the 
office. The message had been delivered by Sid Morris's secretary, and Joyce 
had overheard. This surprised her, since Mr. M. had already been serviced 
once that day. And, lately, once had been his limit. 

"Sit down, Charlene," Mr. M. said. His voice was gentle, but conveyed a 
message of no-nonsense seriousness. Charlene sat. 

"Do you like your job here, my dear?" 

Charlene was taken aback. What kind of a question was this? "Oh, yes, Mr. M. 
I love working with clothes, and yours are exceptional. And I'm learning a 
lot it's very interesting. Yes, I love working here." 

"Do you know who that buyer was?" 

"Yes. Mr. Hershfield." 

Sid pulled a bottle of Scotch out of his lower left drawer. "It's almost 
five. You won't have to work any more today, Charlene. Join me in a drink." 
He produced two small glasses. "Oh! No, thank you, Mr. Morris. I don't 
drink." 

"Only smoke pot, huh?" he muttered privately. "You know, Charlene," he 
wagged his finger at her, "you say 'no' too much. There's another word 
you're going to have to learn to say that suits pretty girls much better. 
It's 'yes.' Let me hear you say 'yes,' Charlene." 

Charlene hadn't seen him like this before. He was as kind and gentle as 
ever, but there was a steely quality behind his words. As if hypnotized, she 
said, "Yes, Mr. M." 

He poured the drinks and handed her one. "Just swirl it around in your mouth 
a little first. Drink it slowly." 

Charlene no longer considered being obstinate. She complied, and felt the 
warmth of the liquor suffuse her throat all the way to her stomach. She 
coughed slightly, burning. 

"A girl who wears such expensive clothes and drives such an expensive car 
must learn to appreciate Scotch. Of course, when you go to dinner with Mr. 
Hershfield tonight you don't have to drink Scotch. You can drink bourbon or 
gin or vodka, but you must drink something. Men don't like to drink alone 
when they're with a beautiful young lady." 

Charlene's head was swimming. Expensive clothes, expensive car, dinner with 
Mr. Hershfield. What was happening? "But, Mr. M., I'm not going to dinner 
with Mr. Hershfield." 

"Don't be silly, my dear. Of course you are. When I asked if you knew who 
that buyer was, I didn't mean just his name. I meant who, really who like in 
Who's Who. Well, obviously you don't, so I'll spell it out. Mr. Hershfield 
represents Martin and Martin, who have stores all over the country. Mr. 
Hershfield buys for all those beautiful stores. He doesn't buy a piece here 
and a piece there. He buys by the thousand!" 

"Oh," Charlene interjected, a flickering of understanding crossing her mind. 

"Yes, and Mr. Hershfield got his feelings hurt when you turned him down, 
Charlene. We don't insult our buyers. That's a no-no. Am I making myself 
clear?" 

"But Mr. M.," Charlene gulped and hoped her eyes weren't all teary, "after 
working hours, isn't my time my own?" 

"Charlene, if you want to make it in the fashion industry, you eat, sleep, 
and breathe it around the clock. Especially sleep," he added pointedly. 
"That goes for any kind of modeling you do. I know you have that interview 
for a hair commercial lined up. Maybe the agency man who represents the 
shampoo will want you to go out with him. Well, are you going to accept, or 
maybe let some other girl go out with him and get the job instead of you?" 
He paused after this pitch to let it sink in fully. 

"Well," Charlene said, looking down into her lap. "I don't know. Of course, 
a commercial pays a lot of money, and then the residuals can really be 
fantastic." 

Sid let out a sigh of relief. At last he was getting through. He arose from 
his swivel chair and walked around the desk to where she sat. "Let's bring 
your chair around here, my dear," he said, helping her up while he moved her 
chair next to his. "Now. That's better." He patted her knee and slipped his 
hand up her thigh, opening her smock a bit as he did. 

"Now," he continued. "A big order from Martin and Martin would give you a 
nice bonus at Christmas time. And when I like a girl she gets her clothes at 
cost, not wholesale. Do you know what that means?" And then, before Charlene 
had a chance to answer, he continued, "It means that I don't make a damn 
thing. I charge you what it costs to make the garment. In fact, sometimes I 
give things away that were cancelled and couldn't be placed. I give them to 
my pretty little employees." He put one large hand on the back of her head, 
pulled her forward and kissed her on the cheek. "But that isn't all. When 
Mr. Hershfield likes a girl he is very generous. And that car of yours 
probably has big payments." 

"Just for going out with him, Mr. M.? Mr. Hershfield is generous to a girl 
for just going out with him?" 

"Your mother wasn't much older than you are when she started her career with 
me, Charlene. She was smart. That's why she lasted. Looks aren't enough. 
There's more looks than brains floating around, but when you get the 
combination you got a winner. You are a winner, aren't you, Charlene?" 

"Well, I hope so, Mr. Morris. But does that mean I have to... " She 
faltered. "... you know." 

"It doesn't hurt, Charlene. In fact, I'd say it helps. It helps a lot. But 
it's more serious than that, Charlene. If you don't go to dinner with Mr. 
Hershfield and act very, very nice to him and it hurts me to say this to you 
because you're Sonja's baby, but I can't beat about the bush any longer I'm 
going to have to let you go and then have you blacklisted by the rest of the 
industry in order to save the Hershfield account. There's no other way he 
could save face. I just can't afford to have 'no' girls working for me." 

Now the tears fell freely from Charlene's large blue eyes. 

"Oh, baby," he said, patting her on the cheek. "Don't cry. You'll make your 
eyes all red for tonight." He let his hand slip down into the smock and 
gently squeezed her breast. Then he kissed her full on the lips. 

Charlene left Sid Morris's office shaken. It was five-twenty and everyone 
had left the plant. Oddly, she found herself thinking in exactly the 
direction Sid Morris had hoped she might. That new car was, indeed, an 
albatross around her neck, and it did represent a big nut to crack. Paying 
off a thirty-five-hundred-dollar car was no joke. 

But Sonja had refused to let her purchase a second-hand transportation car. 

"Are you kidding," her mother had said. "You've got to look successful, 
baby. Money goes to money. You can't go around looking like broken-down 
humble pie looking for an extra crumb. You have to drive up in a flashy 
sports car and you get out wearing expensive clothes. That's where it's at. 
If you look like you don't need a job, you get it. You gotta be class." 

Charlene dressed quickly. She had to hurry home. She'd have to bathe, apply 
her make-up again, and don her most expensive long dress. And fast. She had 
to be back at the Ambassador for her eight-thirty dinner date with one of 
the least lovable men she'd ever met:Mr. Hershfield. If I must play the 
game, she thought, then I suppose I must. And well. 

Charlene, clad only in panties, stood before her dressing-table mirror, 
admiring her handiwork. Foundation creams, eye shadows and liners, eyebrow 
pencils, mascaras, rouges, lipsticks, and powder were strewn about the 
table. 

Just as Charlene was applying a bright red lipstick, Sonja walked in, glass 
in hand. She gasped and almost spilled her drink when she caught Charlene's 
reflection in the mirror. "Good Lord! Are you going to a masquerade?" 

"Mother!" Charlene replied, a hurt tone in her voice, "I'm going out with 
Mr. Hershfield and Mr. M. wants me to look my best." 

"In that case, get out the cold cream. Let's get that goop off your face." 

"Mother, I'm not wearing sports clothes tonight! I'll have on my best long 
dress and I think I should wear the make-up to go with it. I'm not a school 
kid any longer." Anger replaced her distress. Sonja strode over to Charlene, 
put her drink on the dressing-table, and took her hands in her own. "Look, 
baby, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but you need a lesson in make-up. 
I don't expect you to let your face go bare-assed when you're dolled up for 
an evening on the town, but too much is too much. In the first place, you're 
a blonde you can't wear as much make-up as a brunette. In the second place, 
which is really the first place, you have youth. Never again in your life 
will you be able to take advantage of your natural beauty. Even plain girls 
seem pretty because they're young and fresh. Whatever you do with your 
make-up, you mustn't kill that glowing freshness." 

She released Charlene and reached for the cleansing cream. "Here, you're 
going to start over." She handed Charlene a Kleenex from the little paper 
mache-covered box. Charlene's anger subsided as she watched her mother 
handle the box one of the treasured presents she had brought from Mexico a 
year earlier. She looked up to her mother's face and saw that Sonja's best 
interests were now being directed toward Charlene's own. Sonja really was in 
her corner. She sighed and began to cream her face. 

"Here, put some astringent on to get all the cleansing cream off before you 
begin again." Sonja handed Charlene a dampened cotton pad. 

"All right," she went on, "what do we have here?" She began to appraise the 
foundations. "Here, this color matches your skin best. Now put it on 
sparingly in dots, then rub it into your face with both hands. You really 
don't need anything on your skin, but I know you want to have a really 
finished look tonight. Okay, now apply the eye shadow faintly, so that it 
complements your eyes, instead of making them garish. Understatement is what 
we want, dear." 

Charlene followed her mother's instructions. After the eye shadow she was 
told to put her brown eye liner on subtly, rather than as if she were going 
to a costume party as Cleopatra. Then the powder was patted on gently. Next 
the brown mascara applied, allowed to dry, then re-applied. 

"Do you see the difference, baby? You're wearing the make-up instead of it 
wearing you. You've got on the same variety, but it's applied artistically. 
Anyone can pour the make-up on, but achieving a natural look is quite a 
trick. 

"I've got to admit you're right, Mother," Charlene answered as she applied 
some Blush to give her cheeks a little color. 

"What dress are you wearing?" 

Charlene walked to the closet and pulled out a long-sleeved, low-necked 
matte jersey print. "Oh, yes, that dress is marvelous on you. Don't you 
think this soft coral lipstick would be pretty with it?" 

"Yes, but bright shades are in, Mother." 

"Charlene, you have to learn to go with the fashion just so long as it is 
complimentary to you. The minute something is not good for you, fuck it. You 
should never wear bright reds. At least, not until you're thirty. By that 
time they'll be back to white." 

Charlene, subdued, took the coral lipstick from her mother, and when she 
finished applying it stood back and admired the completed job. 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

At that moment they noticed Jon standing at the open door, leaning against 
the frame, drink in one hand and martini pitcher in the other. 

"Well, I was beginning to think you both had divorced me. I didn't know you 
were conducting a class. You could get a job at the studio, Sonja." 

Charlene could feel her bare nipples begin to harden and an excited shiver 
go down her spine as she looked at Jon. He looked so damned appealing in his 
white tennis shorts. He hadn't had a job for a while in between pictures as 
they said in the film industry so he played tennis every day. 

"Come in. Join the party." Sonja said. 

"I'm bringing the party to you. Want a refill?" 

Sonja held her glass out to him as he poured. "I don't think you'd better 
have any before driving across town, Charlene," she said. 

"Mr. M. gave me a Scotch before I drove home." She began to step into her 
dress. 

"Scotch isn't as potent as martinis." Sonja wrinkled her forehead. "You 
know, that's a thought. I don't want you to do a lot of drinking and drive 
home late tonight. You'd better pack a bag." 

"Mother! Just what am I expected to do with this man?" Sonja looked 
surprised. "Didn't Mr. M. make that clear to you?" 

"He said I was to be very nice to him. Whatever that means." 

Sonja became exasperated. Jon sat down on the bed with a silly grin on his 
face. "What do you think it means, Charlene? That you should play a nice 
game of chess with him?" Charlene blushed brighter than her Blush. 

"Jon." Sonja turned to him. "Sorry, but you're going to have to cut Charlene 
off. Fun and games are all very well as long as they don't affect her 
career. Maybe when she gets a little hard up her understanding will 
improve." 

This statement made Charlene bristle. "Listen, Mother, you may tell me how 
to make-up, but you can't tell me who to make! I don't notice you bothering 
much with anyone else since you've been going with Jon." 

"Listen, young lady, I have earned my wings. Besides, I think I've been a 
most generous mother, sharing Jon with you." She noticed Charlene struggling 
with the zipper of her dress and went to help her with it. 

Charlene held herself in check, for she knew this was true. As much as Jon 
enjoyed making love to her, Charlene knew he'd drop her in a minute if it 
disturbed the cushy setup he had with Sonja. He had just "sort of brought" 
all his belongings over one day, letting his apartment go. Before that, he 
had been there most of the time anyway, so Sonja hadn't objected. But he 
wasn't paying any household expenses, not even entertainment expenses. No, 
Jon would definitely not cross Sonja. She glanced at him. He was sipping his 
drink, his bronzed face inscrutable. 

Charlene tried a different tactic. "All right, Mom, you win. What do I do? 
Fuck the guy?" 

"Well, now, I don't know if that's what he'll want. Maybe he'll just want 
you to go down on him." 

"Oh, Mother! I couldn't. I don't even know how." 

"What?" Sonja shot Jon a questioning glance. He concentrated on his drink. 

Sonja moved toward him, stood straight in front of him. "Jon." The tone of 
her voice commanded his attention. He looked up, his face bland. "Jon, 
you've been fucking and sucking my daughter at least once a day for almost 
two weeks. Do you mean to say that you haven't been instructing her in the 
fine art of fellatio?" 

"No, I haven't even taught her to suck cock," he joked vainly. 

"For Christ's sake! I thought I could depend on you to give her the full 
treatment. Why in hell haven't you?" 

"I've got to go, Mother," Charlene interjected. 

"Not so fast, young lady." She put out her hand to physically restrain 
Charlene if need be. "But I'll be late, Mother." 

"I'll call him after you leave and tell him you've been detained. He'll 
thank me later. Jon, answer me." 

"Well," he shrugged, "Goddamnit, Sonja, you're the best cocksucker in the 
world. I just didn't worry about not getting my cock sucked when I was with 
Charlene. I figured I could save that for you." 

"Oh, did you, now? Well, you can just figure again. Charlene, come here." 

Sonja's tone was very authoritative. Charlene did as she was told. "Jon, get 
your shorts off." 

Jon anticipated what was to happen next, and by the time his shorts were off 
his manhood was already in full bloom. 

"Let me help you out of that dress, Charlene. No use getting it messed up." 

"What about my make-up, Mother?" 

"Nobody's going to do anything to you, my dear, so just be careful and your 
make-up'll keep perfectly." Charlene seemed under control, so Sonja turned 
her attention to Jon, who, predictably, was very manageable. 

"Sit right on the edge of the bed, Jon," Sonja commanded. To her daughter, 
she said, "Okay, Charlene, get on the floor in between his legs. That's it. 
Kneel. A subservient position always gives men like Hershfield an extra 
thrill." 

Charlene did as she was told. Jon's large penis, staring her directly in the 
face, was producing a moistness between her thighs. Instinctively, she put 
her lips to the huge purplish glans in an affectionate kiss. 

"That's very sweet, baby... " Sonja remarked, "... for starters. Now take 
his cock into your mouth. Slowly. That's right, take it all. I know it's a 
big one, but get all of it you can. Start out slowly and flick your tongue 
around as you're moving up and down. But that's something I can't really 
see, so I can't judge. You'll have to speak up, Jon." 

"She's doing fine. Just fine," Jon said dreamily. "I want to lie down." 

Charlene was sure she was dripping now. Oh, this gorgeous cock, she thought. 
I'd like to put it in me. I'd like to get on top of him right now and fuck 
like crazy. I'd like to feel it all the way up to my lungs. 

"Okay, you do that. And, Charlene, you get up on the bed still between his 
legs. Cup his balls in one hand, be affectionate, lick them for good 
measure. That's right. Now, come back to the cock. Before you put your mouth 
over it again, lick it like it's a lollipop." 

Jon's breathing was becoming heavier and he was making sounds of pleasure. 

"That's it, baby," he moaned. "That's good. Good!" 

Charlene had encompassed his penis again and was moving up and down, in 
faster and faster piston strokes, deeper and deeper. The youthful girl was a 
natural, and Sonja did not fail to recognize this valuable point. Not yet 
the pro, perhaps, that her mother was, Charlene had none the less displayed 
a natural talent. Sonja had mixed emotions. 

Jon was obviously on the verge of exploding when Sonja pulled Charlene away 
and said, "Okay, that's fine, baby. Go brush your teeth and pack an 
overnight bag." 

"Hey! What is this?" Jon rasped, visibly shaken. 

"Don't worry, hon," Sonja smiled, "hold on a second, and the chief 
cocksucker'll take care of things don't go 'way." 

"Mother, I'll have to do more than just brush my teeth. My dress will be 
soaked if I don't wash myself." 

"You'll do no such thing. Your dress isn't going to get soaked, so you just 
leave everything as is. That way, when our Hershfield sticks his finger in 
you during dinner, unless I miss my guess she'll find a hot, wet cunt. Now, 
let's finish your lesson." She followed Charlene into the bathroom and 
continued her instructions as Charlene brushed her teeth. "When he comes if 
he likes to come that ways wallow it all, and act as if you're deliriously 
happy for the opportunity. Then lick his cock dry." 

"Oh, Mother! I don't even want to go down on him much less swallow the 
stuff!" 

"I don't give a shit what you want to do. Just do it. And remember, a thing 
worth doing is worth doing well. So make him believe you love it. Now, come 
on. Fix your lipstick, throw some things in a bag and get your ass out of 
here." 

A few minutes later, as Charlene was hurrying down the stairs, she called 
up, "Mother, don't forget to make that call to Mr. Hershfield. I'm late 
now." 

"I won't, darling," Sonja answered, leaning over the railing. "Have a good 
time. Drive carefully. Oh, and Charlene... " 

"Yes, Mother?" 

"... did you remember to take your pill today?" 

"Yes, Mother." 

"That's a good girl." 

The front door slammed shut. Sonja began taking her clothes off while 
walking back to Charlene's bedroom to complete a job that was really no job 
at all. She tried vainly to remember if she had ever had to "pretend" she 
liked ingesting men's semen. She thought not. She allowed her pink tongue to 
flick out in a lip-moistening motion, a motion which clearly revealed her 
anticipation. 

Monarchs have been known as "The Lion-Hearted," 

"The Ill-Tempered," and so on, and the Prince of the sportswear buyers was 
no exception. Throughout the industry, the name of "Hershfield, the 
Arrogant" was well-known. 

He had reserved the darkest corner in an elite, commodious, poorly 
illuminated restaurant. By prior arrangement, he had been assured he and his 
striking young lady would be seated side by side, rather than facing one 
another. 

Mom was right, Charlene thought. They had only begun their salads and 
already she could feel Hershfield's hand find its way through the slit in 
her dress to the inside of her knee. 

"First job modeling, huh?" he said, apparently offering a vocal distraction 
in the belief his hand might not be noticed. "You're a natural, honey. 
You'll go a long way. Provided you don't just stick yourself in a downtown 
wholesale house. If you want to make the big money, you've got to 
circulate." 

"Oh, I know that, Mr. Hershfield... " 

"Hershey to you, baby." 

"Hershey. I'll only be working for Mr. M. for half the year, and the rest of 
the time I'll be freelancing. He's letting me come in late one day next week 
so I can go on an interview for a hair commercial. And if I make it, it'll 
probably come up when I'm through for a while with Hollywood Sunwear." 

"You'll make it." He put his fork down and ran his hand over her hair. 
"You've got a great face to go with that beautiful hair. How can you miss?" 

"Well, I haven't seen my competition," Charlene answered, trying not to 
succumb to the flattery. Then, as if the conversation had suddenly become 
very secondary, a silence fell over the two as Charlene realized that 
Hershfield's hand was on the move. She flinched as his hand moved higher up 
the inside of her thigh. 

"Spread your legs, honey. Let Hershey get acquainted with your cute little 
friend up there." 

Charlene felt flushed. She hadn't expected things to go this fast. 
Fortunately, she had had a couple of martinis. 

"Oh, but Mr. I mean, Hershey. Isn't it a little soon to... " 

"Don't get coy with me. Just do what I tell you to do." 

Charlene definitely detected a mean tone in his voice. She spread her legs 
enough to allow his hand to move around freely. 

"That's better," he said, treating her to a smile. "Hey, what's this? 
Underpants?" 

"Well, yes. Of course." 

"Go to the ladies' room and take them off." 

"What!" Charlene could hardly believe her ears. 

"You heard me go take them off." 

"Right now?" 

"Right now." And then, when she didn't jump up immediately, he added 
gruffly, "When I say right now, sister, I mean a minute ago." 

Charlene put her fork down. Oh, well, she thought resignedly, I guess I'd 
better play it his way. She looked down ruefully at the barely touched salad 
and thought, Oh, well. I only wanted a bite or two anyway. Besides, the 
dressing probably contained too many calories. 

"Wait a minute," he said as she stood up. He fished into his pocket and 
pulled out a new fifty-cent piece. 

"For the girl." 

In the ladies' room she removed her panties. She was quick to discover that 
all the lubrication from earlier had disappeared. In fact, being with Mr. 
Hershfield seemed to have dried her up. She opened a tube of vaseline a 
precautionary article Sonja had insisted she bring along and spread it 
around her clitoris-again per Sonja's instructions. As she touched her tiny 
mound, she felt a thrill shoot through her body. She put on more and rubbed 
it in. Well, she thought, I might even get naturally lubricated again if I 
keep this up. 

She washed her hands, tipped the girl, and walked back to the table, feeling 
the fabric of her dress rub sensuously against her now-bare buttocks. 

The steaks had just arrived, and Charlene's attention was immediately 
diverted to the food. But it was not to be. As soon as she was seated, 
Hershfield's hand dove through the slit in her dress and up between her 
thighs. "Open wide, baby," he said. 

Charlene obeyed. 

"Oh, baby!" he exclaimed as his finger explored her vulva. "You're all ready 
for the ol' Hershey bar." He laughed uproariously at his own joke. 

Charlene shivered physically at the idea. Nothing, she thought, could be 
less romantic or less funny. Hershfield detected the shiver also, but 
misconstrued it as representing excitement, anticipation. 

"Hardly wait, huh? Well, hurry up and eat your steak, so good ole Hershey 
can take care of you." 

He had to take his hand away in order to cut his steak. For this, at least, 
Charlene was thankful. "Stay as lovely as you are," he said as he gave her a 
few parting pats on the pubic hair. 

"Yes, sir, I'm going to place a huge order with Mr. M., baby. I think I'll 
just drop Leisure Line and give it all to Hollywood Sunwear. And all because 
of you! What the hell, Hollywood Sun-wear can give me everything I need in 
the sportswear line." 

As easy as that! Just think, all I've had to do was spread my legs a little 
and now it seems to be all set. That was the whole point, wasn't it? Get the 
business? 

For an insane instant Charlene thought perhaps she might have already 
completed her assignment. Maybe I can just go home after dinner. Then, 
sobering from such thoughts, she realized there was still a game to be 
played. However, a certain tension seemed to have been lessened, and 
Charlene heaved a sigh of relief. Turning to him she asked, "What else do 
you buy, Hershey?" 

"You name it, sweetheart. I've got to fill up a hundred and fifty stores 
with wearing apparel. Hey, a thought just came to me. They got some gorgeous 
fake fur-trimmed coats out this year. You know, fake on account of the 
ecology bit but beautiful, just the same." He favored her with a twinkle in 
his watery blue eyes, then "If you're really super-sweet to me, I'll bring 
you one next trip. September. When I come out for the holiday market week. 
You'll get it just in time for the cool weather." 

Charlene wasn't really sure whether to take all this too seriously, so she 
simply smiled and murmured her thanks. 

The bus boy cleared the dishes away and the waiter reappeared. "Dessert, 
honey?" 

Charlene nodded. She felt full, but wanted to stall the inevitable as long 
as possible. Hershfield's face fell. "Ya do? I thought all you models 
skipped fattening things." 

"I never put on weight. Could I have some cheesecake?" 

He smiled again. "'Course. You can have anything you want, baby." He turned 
to the waiter. "Cheesecake for the lady." 

"Will there be anything for you, sir?" 

"No, I'll have my dessert later," he answered, casting a knowing glance at 
Charlene. 

She thought she would die of embarrassment. Why the need for such 
obviousness? The waiter did not acknowledge the crass remark. 

"We'll have liqueur sent up to the suite. No more sitting around in public, 
baby... I want us to be alone." With that he leaned toward her, insinuated 
his hand between her thighs once again and forcefully jabbed his finger into 
her vagina. 

As soon as the room door was closed Hershfield grabbed Charlene in a rough 
embrace. "Kick off your shoes, honey. Come on down to my size." 

Charlene obeyed impassively, and then they stood nose to nose, the Junoesque 
mannequin and her Chaplinesque escort. 

"That's better," he said, stepping forward and pinching her breast. "Boy, 
you feel good. Come on, let's go into the bedroom and get that dress off. I 
wanna see you." 

At least, Charlene thought, she had by this time gotten over her modesty. It 
seemed she was forever standing around at the factory clad only in panties. 
If they weren't fitting her, she was trying on something, and the workers 
would just come and go, not paying the least bit of attention. That was not 
quite the case now as she stepped out of her dress, but the shop experience 
did help some. 

Hershfield's eyes brightened as he appraised Charlene's beauty. 

"What a perfect body. You've got it all, kid." With that, he leaped forward 
and grabbed a handful of bare buttocks. "What an ass! And these tits!" He 
tried to devour one with his mouth. 

Charlene quickly realized she would soon be a mass of bruises at this rate. 
She was used to Jon, who was masculine, but a tender lover. Real men, she 
knew, don't have to play the "manliness" game. 

He took his mouth away. "Hey, you know, you got the best-lookin' pair of 
knockers I've ever seen on a model. They are really pretty. Get the bed 
down. I'll be right back." He disappeared into the bathroom. 

Please, for God's sake, take your time. 

But she promptly obeyed this most recent order, just as she had the 
preceding. It seemed as if in some strange way the bombastic Mr. Hershfield 
had a way of mesmerizing her with his officiousness. Then, on a much more 
pragmatic level, she told herself, What the hell! I'm earning a fat 
Christmas bonus just by permitting a little fat guy to boss me around. Why, 
if it wasn't such a dreary experience, it might almost be funny! 

She sat on the bed, fluffed the pillows, and then settled back against them, 
scrutinizing the room. It was luxurious by any standards French provincial 
furniture, heavy drapes, carpeting deep enough to get lost in. 

What am I doing here? she asked herself. But before she could think too 
deeply upon the matter, Mr. Hershfield reappeared in his full glory. His 
plump, milky body was as bare as his head. She had to restrain a giggle, for 
he reminded her of the New Year's baby. That went for his penis, too. Oh, 
God, she thought, if I'm to get anything out of this, I'll have to start 
from scratch. 

He sat down, bouncily, beside her. "I'll ring for the drinks," he announced. 
"What d'ya want?" 

Charlene felt like saying a bottle of vodka then perhaps she could just pass 
out and simplify things. But her better senses prevailed. "Creme de cacao, 
please." 

He ordered the drinks, then turned to Charlene. "Let's just fool around a 
little till they come." He grabbed her physically and pressed his lips hard 
against hers. She could feel the hardness of his teeth as he pushed his 
tongue into her mouth. Immediately, by contrast, she thought of Jon's soft, 
loving, sensual kisses even Tom could kiss better than this supposedly 
experienced man. 

He ran his hands over her as if he were handling a bale of hay, and again by 
contrast she thought of Jon's sensitive hands, of his caresses... Oh, a 
man's touch is so important, she thought, trying hard not to shudder. 

A sudden knock on the door caused Hershfield to jump up and grab his robe 
from a chair. "Don't go away, little dumplin'. ol' Hershey'll be right back 
with the goodies." 

The drinks were delivered and Charlene had time for but one small sip of 
hers when Hershfield grabbed it out of her hand, at the same time pushing 
her head down to his crotch. "Here, I'll give ya somethin' better to taste." 

The dreaded moment had arrived she was now face-to-face with his tiny, limp 
penis. Almost as a defensive maneuver, she closed her eyes and tried vainly 
to pretend it was Jon's lovely cock she was about to take in her mouth. 

Somehow she knew that she would have to successfully perpetuate this fantasy 
if she was to survive the evening with her own identity intact. Keeping also 
in mind that she must not come across to her "patron" as a novice, she 
started slowly the way her mother had instructed. She swirled her tongue, 
she licked, she kissed his balls, all seemingly to no avail, since his penis 
remained as flaccid as ever. And yet, he complimented her. 

"Say, you're some kinda expert, aren't you? Who taught you to suck cock like 
that?" 

Charlene stopped long enough to say, "My mother." 

Hershfield's face broke out in a mirthful smile, the first of the evening. 
"I see you've got a good sense of humor, too." 

Taking advantage of the temporary pause, and also feeling the need to lose 
herself as much as possible, Charlene stopped her work to take a sip of her 
drink. Hershfield knocked the glass out of her hand. "I didn't say you could 
stop." 

Charlene stared at him. 

"Get back to your job!" His order was accompanied by a sharp slap on her 
bare buttocks. For the first time that evening she was unable to control her 
own temper. "Don't you dare slap me!" she snapped. 

"Oh, a temper, huh?" He smiled nastily. Then he seized her in a quick grasp 
and pulled her over his knee, whereupon he proceeded unceremoniously to 
spank her. Not as hard as her father had, but quite a spanking just the 
same. 

"Stop it!" she screamed. "I moved in with my mother because my father did 
this to me!" 

"I'm not hurtin' you," Hershfield interrupted without missing a stroke, "I'm 
just showing you who's boss." 

"If you make marks on me, my mother will kill you! I don't care how 
important you are!" 

He slapped away. "I'm not going to make any marks. Are you going to be a 
good girl?" 

"Yes. Stop. Please stop." 

"Okay." He pulled her up. The tears ran down her cheeks. 

Through teary eyes she saw his smiling face and then, lower down, evidence 
of what she hadn't been able to achieve with all of her expert sucking his 
erection. 

He pushed her down on the bed and stuck his finger in her vagina. "You're 
nice and wet, baby, and now you're gonna get a nice Hershey bar up there." 

Charlene thought how odd it was that she was, indeed, wet. And she did feel 
like getting fucked it was a strange mixture of repulsion and sexual desire. 
But before she could consider it at all, perhaps submit willingly, he 
plunged his penis completely within her wet folds. 

This is more like it, she thought if he'd just fuck me and cut out the other 
crap it wouldn't be half bad. She was actually getting into the swing of 
things, beginning to let go, when on about the fifth sharp jab he began 
shaking and cried, "Oh, I'm coming, baby. I'm coming!" Then he pressed his 
hard mouth against hers in a suffocating fusion. 

A minute later, he rolled off and said, "Baby, you are the greatest." Even 
as he said this, he was trying hard to catch his breath, as if his five 
quick strokes had been five hundred, and his forehead and cheeks seemed 
highly flushed. Calming somewhat, he turned to Charlene and said in a softer 
voice, "I'll tell you a secret. I haven't been able to get my cock hard 
enough to fuck for a year. I was beginning to think I was impotent that is, 
until tonight. Boy, we're gonna fuck every night I'm in town." His 
continuing brusque tone could not conceal the fact that he was highly 
elated. 

When Charlene was sure he was asleep, she tiptoed into the bathroom, cleaned 
up and dressed. It was only midnight and she wasn't about to hang around for 
another session in a few hours. She'd done her duty, she wasn't drunk, and 
she could drive home without any assistance. If her mother didn't like it, 
let her go out with good ol' Hershey herself, chew on his bar, get spanked, 
have his "ol' bar" shoved in her just long enough to get her interested and 
then leave her frustrated. 

Besides, she felt turned on, and if she hurried home there might still be 
some leftovers. 

And not in the refrigerator. 

 CHAPTER SIX 

Joyce stormed into Sid Morris's private office. 

"How could you do this to me, Mr. M.?" she demanded. Her smock hung open and 
her young firm breasts quivered with indignation. 

Sid looked up from his bookwork and peered at her over his spectacles. "What 
did I do, Joyce?" 

Joyce breathed deeply, as one does in the throes of exasperation, before 
answering. 

"You let Charlene go out with Mr. Hershfield. Before, you always let me 
entertain the big accounts. Not only do I need the bonuses I get for 
bringing in large orders, I also happen to like those expensive restaurants. 
What other chance do I get to go to such nice places as Mr. Hershfield takes 
a girl? At home I'm always taking care of my mother and brothers cooking, 
cleaning... " She trailed off tearfully. 

Sid seemed genuinely sorry. He listened attentively, and he sincerely 
empathized with the girl and her circumstances. But he had to be practical, 
too; he must always consider business first. 

"I'm sorry, Joyce," he explained, "but Mr. Hershfield specifically asked for 
Charlene. He just flipped the minute he saw her." 

"He did, did he? Well, you could have talked him out of it. After all, she's 
awfully young and inexperienced. How could she be expected to know how to 
handle him?" 

Sid couldn't help relaxing back into his seat and allowing a small smile of 
self-satisfaction to crease his face. He answered, but not in gloating 
terms, "She brought in the largest order he's ever made with us, Joyce." He 
hoped this information would not be too much of a blow to her ego. 

Joyce was immediately defensive. "Well, he was probably going to place the 
order anyway. It was a coincidence." 

"Not likely, Joyce. After last night, he's decided to drop Leisure Line 
altogether. He's giving us all of his sportswear business." 

Joyce stood with her mouth open for a minute before she recovered. "It's 
very strange," she said softly. "He sure was happy with me last time. He 
said I gave the best head ever. And you know that's true, too, Mr. M." She 
walked around the desk and reached for his fly. "Or should I refresh your 
memory?" 

Sid laughed and pushed her hand away. "Oh, Joyce, come on now. I've got work 
to do. Besides, you shouldn't be upset by Hershfield's reaction. Who knows? 
Maybe the guy just has to have a strange piece of ass every time." 

Joyce flipped her long dark hair back and headed for the door. "Hardly," she 
replied, "he certainly never made any use of it." With that she sailed 
haughtily out the door, seemingly recovered from her self-doubt. 

Sid Morris was somewhat puzzled. He was trying to figure out both Joyce's 
reaction as well as just what Charlene's specialty might have been for, 
indeed, Hershfield had been quite unlike himself since when Judith peeked 
her nose in the door and announced Sonja. 

Busy morning, he mused, awaiting Sonja's entrance. When she appeared, he 
arose, strode to the front of his desk and embraced her. "My favorite model 
back to see old Dad." 

"Old Dad hasn't changed a bit," Sonja said, objecting not at all as he 
squeezed her breast. "You look great." 

"You're the one who looks great, Sonja. Honestly, you haven't changed in ten 
years. What's your secret?" 

"At least one good orgasm every day," she laughed throatily as she plunked 
herself into a soft leather chair. "Hey, I hear my baby made a home run for 
you. How about that!" 

"She sure did. She's her mother's daughter all right." He produced his 
lighter for Sonja's cigarette. 

"She's better than I ever was, simply because she's got me to train her," 
Sonja replied shrewdly. 

That's true, Sid thought. What a beauty. She could be a cover girl if she 
went to New York. Or she could be a movie star. And I've got her working for 
Hollywood Sunwear. 

"Yes, I suppose that's right," Sid said aloud. "And, of course, she'll get a 
good bonus at Christmas time." 

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Sid." Sonja took a deep drag on 
her cigarette and shifted her legs so Mr. M. could see how pretty they still 
were. "Seeing that Charlene will only be working here part time and we don't 
know how much money she'll be making in between, she needs that bonus now. 
In fact, I think results like this deserve a double bonus. Don't you?" She 
asked this last innocently, as if she didn't already know the clinking cash 
register in his brain was giving him a headache. 

But this was nothing new. It was a game they had played many times before. 
Sonja had been the best model he'd ever had, especially for purposes of 
reinforcing a big sale. He had always given her larger commissions than the 
other girls that is, after they haggled a while. It had always been a game 
they both enjoyed. 

"Double bonus!" he bellowed. Dramatizing was part of the expected etiquette, 
but this time he was sincere. "Nobody has ever been given a double bonus, 
Sonja. Not even you." 

"There's a first time for everything, darling. Besides, I told you the 
daughter's better than the mother." 

"Ha," he said, collapsing back into his swivel chair. "Nobody's better than 
my little Sonja." He added a charming smile. 

Sonja stubbed out her cigarette. "I love you, Sid, baby, but I love my 
daughter more. I'm working for her now. And I know she's earned a double 
bonus." 

"But, Sonja, on that huge order, it'll be a fortune," he pleaded with her. 

Ha! she thought. He's losing his composure. He's groping for excuses! "Well, 
it is a huge order, Sid so huge that Leisure Line would be tickled to give 
her that double bonus if she'd only go to work for them. They'd have their 
own business back, plus all of yours," she added slyly. 

It was no longer a game. Sid Morris felt his stomach churn and the old ulcer 
threaten to erupt. Sonja saw the pained expression on his face, but thought 
it was only a part of the expected theatrics. So when he said, "I'll give 
her an extra fifty percent and that's it," she responded lightly. 

"That won't do. Not a penny less than seventy-five." 

"It's a deal," he said quickly. He took her hand to seal the bargain. 

With business out of the way, they chatted a few minutes about the old days 
and the many old wholesale houses that had been driven out of business. 

"Well, I've an appointment before lunch." She stood up. Sid came around the 
desk and kissed her goodbye and showed her to the door. 

When the door was closed he muttered, "Once a cunt, always a cunt." 

"Go in there right now and thank your boss, honey. He's decided to give you 
an extra-large bonus." 

Charlene looked at her mother coolly. "Oh? Who told you that?" 

"Why, he did, baby. I've just now been in there, breaking my ass bargaining 
with him." 

Charlene felt anger rise. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her 
palms until they hurt. In a low, monitored voice she replied, "Who asked you 
to, Mother? You let me do my own fucking and sucking how come you feel I'm 
incapable of doing my own bargaining?" 

Sonja was surprised at a complete loss. She faltered, "Why baby, this is an 
old game between Mr. M. and me. I thought you'd be glad. I got you more than 
anyone's ever gotten." 

"How much? 

"One and three-fourths bonuses." 

Charlene drew her breath in. "I'd rather you fucked and sucked that 
repulsive old man for me, Mother, than what you did. Besides, I'd been 
planning on a double bonus!" 

"Don't you think I started out trying for a double, darling?" 

"Well, you may have started with it, but I intend to stick with it." Then 
her voice raised, "You don't know what I went through last night, Mother!" 
She yanked her belt tightly around her smock and stalked out, leaving Sonja 
for the first time in her life speechless. 

Then Sonja thought to herself, if she does actually get a double bonus, then 
she really is better than her mother. 

She left the building in a daze. 

Ruth caught Charlene as she was stamping into Mr. M.'s private office. 
"Charlene, I need to fit you for the baby-blue slack outfit for the holiday 
line." 

"Not now, Ruth," Charlene answered sharply. 

Ruth came to a halt, utterly surprised. Charlene had always been a sweet 
girl this was difficult to understand. Ruth drifted away without another 
word. 

Charlene stood at the open door of Mr. Morris's office, pulling herself 
together. She took a deep breath, stuck a smile on her face, then walked in. 

"Charlene!" 

Mr. Morris rose quickly, took her by the hand and led her to his black 
leather couch against the wall. "I was just going to send for you. Come, 
let's sit here where we can have a nice friendly chat." 

Charlene murmured something cordial in reply and then sat down demurely, 
allowing only a nominal amount of thigh to be exposed. 

"Well," he began, rubbing his hands together, seating himself close beside 
her. "You really pulled a caper, bringing old Hershey right to the goal post 
like you did." 

"You pulled a pretty good caper, too, Mr. M.," said Charlene, smiling 
sweetly. 

"What do you mean?" 

"You're doing business with me, Mr. M., not my mother. That extra 
seventy-five percent doesn't hold. I want double." 

Sid pursed his lips and took a good look at Charlene. "You've grown up a lot 
since yesterday, young lady." 

"Yes, I have, Mr. M. You might say I've been spanked into a new life." 

"Well, I'll tell you what I'm going to do, Charlene." He slipped his hand 
onto her knee. "I'm going to give you double money if you entertain me a 
little bit." 

She gave him a sidelong glance. "Oh, you mean to get a double bonus I've got 
to earn it twice?" He laughed. "No, no, no. I just want you to tell me about 
last night." Now Charlene laughed. "You want my trade secrets, huh?" 

"No, no, I just like hearing about it. Don't you understand?" 

"Well, I guess it can't hurt," Charlene laughed, "because nobody here can 
compete with me even at eighteen, Joyce is too old. You'd have to find 
someone fourteen to beat me out of 'ole Hershey.' " 

"Is that it? He likes real young girls?" 

"That's only part of it, Mr. M." 

"Charlene, before you start, open your smock and let me have a look at those 
perfect breasts." He reached for her belt and gave it a pull, then parted 
the smock with a soft caress of his fingers across the nipples of her 
breasts. 

Why not? Charlene thought. No real harm not after what I've been through. 
"Go on, my dear, tell me." 

"Well, it all started at dinner when he made me go to the ladies' room and 
remove my panties." Sid could feel his penis begin to grow. 

"I could tell by the harsh way he acted there was something different about 
him, but at that time I was too inexperienced to figure out what it was." 

"Yes?" Sid's breathing became harder as Charlene recounted the playing 
around under the table during dinner, then he became impatient for more 
details. "All right, get on to the part that's different," he urged. 

"Well, when we got back to his hotel room he ordered drinks... " 

"Cut out all the unimportant stuff, Charlene." 

"It is important, because he got mad when I stopped going down on him for a 
minute to take a sip of my drink." 

"Oh, I see. Go on." 

"He gave me a sharp slap on my rear and when I got mad he pulled me over his 
knee and really spanked me. Then he got a hardon." 

So did Sid upon hearing about it. He undid his fly and pulled out his 
erection. 

Looking at Charlene, almost pleading, he said, "Just stroke him a little 
bit, will you, Charlene? I'd love that." 

"No, Mr. M. Our deal was to tell you a story, and only a story." Sid's 
immediate puzzlement was slowly turning to an irritation. 

How could she have turned from that sweet little flower into this sharp 
little thorn overnight, he wondered. 

"Very well," he said, stroking his own penis. "Well, that's the main part. 
He said he hasn't been able to get enough of a hardon to actually fuck a 
girl for a year now. He's only been able to get sucked off. It made him feel 
like a young stud again to be able to fuck." 

"Your language is becoming atrocious, Charlene. You mustn't lose your class, 
not for a minute, not even with me. Say 'screw' or 'lay' or even 'hump,' but 
don't say 'fuck,' unless you're about to do it. And that goes for 'sucked 
off,' too. Say 'giving head' or 'going down' unless you are actually about 
to do some sucking off." He looked from her to his completed erected penis. 

Charlene ignored the hint. 

Thickheaded little broad! Sid fumed to himself. 

Maybe a little drastic action was called for. If he was about to get screwed 
out of excessive bonus money, he might as well try for a bonus himself. 

"I'll tell you what I'm going to do for you, Charlene," he told her. 
"Besides giving you a double bonus," he went on as he leaned over quickly 
and yanked her panties off before she could react, "I'm going to suck you 
off." He pushed her down on her back. His head was between her thighs and 
his tongue on her pea-sized clitoris before she could actually mobilize an 
objection. 

Charlene's immediate reaction was to squirm and struggle, but Mr. M's palms 
were assertively holding her thighs apart as well as pinned down. And then 
the soft, liquid thunderbolt of sensation began to assert itself upon her 
awareness. Her struggling quieted, her anxiety softened. She began to relax. 

How come, she had started to think, that all men thought they were God's 
gift to cunt-eating? Then she forgot to think, for dear Mr. M. was making 
her tingle with desire she found herself wanting more. He sucked and licked 
her little spot until she was overcome by the heat of her own body and she 
broke into a multiple spasm of orgasms. 

Then, suddenly, it was over. Sid wiped his dripping mouth with a linen 
handkerchief. "Oh, oh, Mr. M." she moaned. "That was so nice... " He looked 
down at her, relieved to see that she was her old relaxed and sweet self 
again. He wanted to continue all this, get his cock sucked, maybe fuck the 
girl, but his better business senses prevailed. He decided not to pursue her 
for his cause, but rather to save her strength for "good ol' Hershey" that 
evening. "Okay, cutie, put your pants on and get back to work. Don't ever 
say your boss isn't good to you." 

"I'd never say that," she smiled as she slipped her panties on and fastened 
her smock. "I have to go and let Ruth fit me. I brushed her off when I came 
in here." 

Sid walked back to his desk and relaxed in his chair. "Judith," he spoke 
into the intercom, "get Joyce in here." 

"Joyce is showing the line, Mr. M." 

"I don't give a fuck what she's showing," he said, in one of his rare 
outbursts. "Charlene can show the line." 

"Charlene is getting a fitting." 

"That can wait! I want Joyce in here immediately!" 

"Yes, Mr. M.," Judith twittered. 

In minutes, Joyce appeared. 

Sid leaned back in his chair as Joyce shut the door. "I've got something for 
you, baby." Joyce looked at the large erection as she came around the desk. 
Her face lit up. "Oh! All for me?" She was needed after all. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

Charlene recognized the flashy yellow car parked in front of the house. It 
meant Nicky and Lola were visiting. Going to be a swinging house tonight, 
she thought. 

Quietly she let herself in the front door and was successful in sneaking 
halfway up the stairs before she heard Sonja's voice from the living room. 

"Charlene? That you?" 

"Yes, Mom." 

"Come in, honey, and say hello to Nicky and Lola. You're just in time to 
watch Weak Minds, Strong Hearts with us." 

Oh, my God, Charlene thought, I'd rather keep my date with ol' Hershey and 
go through another spanking than have to sit through that movie again. 

She came back down the stairs, knowing she was trapped. She had to at least 
say hello to the guests. From the living room archway, she could see that 
Nicky and Lola were bombed out of their skulls. And who could blame them? 
This was at least their fiftieth viewing of Sonja in her "starring" role, 
and they were in the only condition possible to suffer it through again. Of 
course, they didn't need much of an excuse to lap up the juice for that 
matter, Sonja and Jon weren't too far behind. However, one could make book 
that Sonja would be sure they stayed sober enough to run the projector. 
Charlene couldn't understand how her mother could bear seeing that stinker 
over and over again without boring even herself to tears, much less her 
friends. 

How sad, really, she thought, to have to keep drawing upon that old film her 
hour of glory for reassurance. 

"Hi, Nicky... Lola." Charlene used her "bright" smile. 

Lola looked up and squinted at Charlene. Her frowzy bleached hair was strewn 
against the cushioned green velvet divan. "Charly, baby! My goodness, you've 
grown. Come, let me see you." Nicky whistled. "Yeh, she's sure grown," he 
said. Sonja beamed. 

Jon wore a giveaway grin. His look of pride virtually announced that he had 
been very close to this "grown-up" girl. 

Nicky, animal sensitivity fully operational, saw and read that look 
accurately. He rose and put his arm around Charlene. "How about a kiss hello 
for Uncle Nicky?" 

"All right, Uncle Nicky," Charlene answered, throwing her arms around him. 
She gave him a kiss that very nearly sobered him up. 

When he got his breath back, he exclaimed, "Why, young lady, you really have 
grown up, haven't you?" 

Charlene gazed at him, basking in his admiration. What a shame Nicky isn't a 
big buyer, she thought in her now fully alert mind. He was cute typically 
Italian gangster style with dark bedroom eyes and black curly hair. 
Inadvertently her eyes dropped to his crotch, and from what she saw she 
surmised he had a nice big hard cock when he was sober. In fact, from the 
appearance of his trousers, it might even be usable right now, alcohol 
notwithstanding. 

Nicky didn't miss the little trip her eyes had taken, and when they returned 
to meet his gaze he made her know what he knew. 

But, she thought, what a pity that all the appealing men were ne're-do-wells 
half-baked actors or tennis bums. 

"Come on, baby. Join us," Sonja said, taking Charlene by the hand and trying 
to sit her down. "We're going to watch the movie before dinner. Start it, 
Jon." 

The film flashed onto the blank wall and there was Sonja, bigger than life, 
in her ten-year-old hairdo and ten-year-old wardrobe but not looking a day 
younger than at this moment. 

"After dinner we intend to create our own entertainment," Sonja said with a 
twinkle in her eyes. "You really ought to stick around, dear." 

"I'd love to, Mom," Charlene said, "but I have to rush. It's Hershey's last 
night in town for two whole months, and I promised to spend all my available 
time with him." 

Sonja was nonplussed she was well aware of the importance of the 
"Hershey-bar" relationship. She went right on to another subject. "Oh, that 
reminds me, you received a package today chauffeur-delivered, no less. I put 
it on your bed." 

"Oh! Who's it from?" Charlene rushed. She loved surprises, especially 
mysterious surprises. "I don't know. But the driver said he picked it up at 
the Ambassador Hotel." 

"Oooh! See you all later." With that, she flew up the stairs. 

"Oh, Charlene," Sonja called up the stairs with her afterthought, "Tom 
phoned you today." 

But Charlene didn't hear. Oh, well, Sonja thought, I'll tell her tomorrow. I 
don't know why she hasn't seen him lately. He's a good-looking boy. No, I 
take that back he's a beautiful young man. If he so much as leaned toward 
me, I'd trip him to the ground and jump on top. 

Then she forgot everything and turned her full attention to her blown-up 
likeness on the wall. Jon operated the projector while staring dazedly at 
the movie. Nicky and Lola were snoring on the couch. 

Charlene bounced into her room. There it was on the bed; a large, brown 
paper-covered package. The mysteries of the Orient couldn't have been more 
tantalizing to Charlene at that moment. She tore off the wrappings in a 
flash. There was an envelope, but she couldn't refrain from pulling the 
article out of the box before opening the note. It was a long white eyelet 
dress with a low-cut organdy ruffle at the top and a shocking pink sash 
which fit tight up under the bust. 

How adorable, Charlene thought as she ripped open the envelope. 

She read: A spanking new dress for you to wear tonight, my baby. 

Love, Hershey Charlene smiled. It really wasn't too bad, his spankings. 
Certainly nothing like the one her own father had applied. Hershey didn't 
cause any bruises or welts, or even a redness that would show up later. It 
was really more of a game with him and, the way things were going, a 
profitable game for her. 

She held the dress up to the mirror. Isn't it nice that the "little girl 
look" is in, she thought. 

"Hi, Charly, baby," she said to her reflection. "How's the girl?" Girl? she 
thought she heard the reflection speak back. In that dress, you may look 
fourteen, but you're a big girl now. Are you ever! 

You know what you're doing and where you're going. 

Or do you? a small voice deep inside of her asked. 

Then she ran into the shower, if for no other reason than to drown out her 
own voice. 

"What a pretty baby," Hershey said, as he opened the door to his suite. 
Charlene was standing before him, clad in her new dress. He was still in his 
silk robe. Charlene gave him a kiss on the mouth. 

"Thank you, Hershey. I love it," she said. He took her by the hand and sat 
her on the couch. 

"I thought you might like something different. I know you can get long 
dresses at work, but they're too tailored." 

"That's right. And with my big car payments I can't really spend the money 
on good dresses." She didn't know the actual cost of the dress, but it would 
certainly be substantial. Of course, it probably cost Hershfield little or 
nothing, but that was beside the point. 

"I just want to make my baby happy," Hershey smiled. It seemed he was a much 
more pleasant person now that he could get a hardon. What a difference 
sexual potency meant, Charlene thought. 

He slid his hand up underneath the long skirt. "You've got panties on, you 
naughty girl," he said sternly, but he didn't really seem put off, the way 
he'd been that first night. 

She looked at him coyly, knowing she had done the right thing. "Well, you 
just won't behave," he sighed. "I guess I'm going to have to spank you." 

"Oh, no, please don't," she wailed, playing the game exactly as he wanted 
it. Her intuition, in this regard, was impeccable. 

"I'm sorry, but you are just going to have to learn, Charlene." With that he 
pulled her over his knee, flung up the long flouncy skirt and pulled down 
her lacy white panties. She could already feel his penis beginning to harden 
beneath her groin. 

"Are you ever going to wear panties when you're with me again?" he demanded 
as he began his slapping of her buttocks. 

"No, no, I promise," Charlene responded, counterfeiting a sob, although she 
felt little. "Stop. Oh, please stop," she entreated. "I won't do it again." 

"How can I believe you? You always say that." He continued spanking, perhaps 
a bit harder. 

"Give me another chance. I'll be good. Please stop." It was now tedious for 
Charlene since he was actually striking harder as well as carrying it on for 
too long a time. Blood was rushing to her head. Maybe she wasn't convincing 
him. "I mean it, Hershey," she said sharply. "Now, stop." 

"Oh, yeah?" he said, hitting harder. "Don't forget who's the boss, baby." 

At this moment, Charlene wondered if it was all really worth it. The 
repetitive slaps were beginning to hurt. She started crying for real and 
begging him to stop. 

Abruptly the ritual ended and Hershey-bar stretched her out on the couch, 
leaving her dress pushed up to her waist. He stood to untie the belt of his 
robe. As he readied to enter her, she interrupted, "No! Let me take the 
dress off. It'll get ruined." 

"No, Goddamnit. I wanta fuck you with it on." With that he plunged into her 
and pumped away. Despite herself she eagerly met his newly found manhood 
with her dewy little bush realizing now that she dearly loved to be fucked 
regardless of the desirability of the man, and then just as she was about to 
work up to an orgasm he began to shake. It was all over. 

"Oh, baby, you are the greatest," he said proudly, as if he might just have 
accomplished something mutually grand. He kissed her full on the mouth, his 
weight falling in a dead heap upon her. 

"Let me go to the bathroom, Hershey," Charlene asked, pushing him off her 
body. 

"Okay, baby." 

She picked up her overnight bag and fled to the bathroom. 

Goddamnit, she thought. Look at me! The dress is crushed and soiled, I need 
another douche and bath, and it'll take me twenty minutes to repair my 
make-up. I ask you, Charlene, is it really worth it? You didn't even come, 
you dumb broad! 

She spent forty minutes going through her customary rituals, then came out 
of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. 

Hershey was sitting at his desk in the bedroom, going over some work. "My 
God, I thought you'd drowned in there," he said. 

"Takes a little time to get ready again," she snapped. She threw the dress 
on the bed. "I can't wear this it looks like a bulldozer's been practicing 
turns on it." 

He inspected the dress. Sure enough it was not only wrinkled; pools of his 
cum were soaking into it. 

"Oh, well," he replied, "it'll come out at the cleaners. Don't you have 
something in that bag you can wear tonight?" 

"Sure," she said, pulling out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Since the next 
day was Saturday she needed little else to drive home. 

"You've got a funny look on your face, baby. Is everything okay?" 

"Oh, I suppose," she invented. New dress ruined, absolutely starving, 
nothing to wear to dinner, sexually frustrated to the point that hell 
wouldn't have it. "I suppose" should have been an adequate answer, but she 
knew it wasn't. 

In desperation she approached him, letting her towel drop, and wrapped her 
arms around his neck. "I'm all kissy clean, Hershey," she said sweetly. 
"Baby feels cranky. Don't you want to kiss baby?" 

"Sure I do," he said, planting a kiss on her lips. 

"That isn't exactly what I meant, Hershey," she said, pulling away. "I meant 
down here." She patted her downy pubis. 

Hershey's eyes opened wide. "I've never done that!" he replied, seemingly 
horrified. "Well, you don't know what you're missing. I thought everybody 
ate pussy these days." 

"Not me," he said adamantly. 

"Come lie down on the bed with me, Hershey. It's time you learned how." 

"Look," he said, balking as she tugged him toward the bed, "I've gotten 
through fifty years without it. I can go a few more." 

She had him on the bed now, removing his robe. "You're not going to go 
another thirty seconds without trying it, if you want to keep your baby," 
she said seductively. "I'm hotter than the sun at a five-mile range. I have 
to come." She took his hand and placed it between her wet thighs. 

"Your cunt's dripping. You sure you douched?" 

"Positive. That's me plus a little of you, maybe. I told you I'm hot. Come 
on, give her a little kiss." Reluctantly he put his head down between her 
satin thighs and pecked at her lower lips. Charlene couldn't restrain a 
giggle. "Hershey, baby, come here." She grabbed him by the shoulders and 
kissed him softly on the mouth, letting her tongue caress his tongue. "Like 
that," she said. 

He went back to his position and tried again. This time she could feel his 
tongue flick her clitoris, then his mouth cover it as he sucked. Abruptly, 
he stopped. "Hey! You taste good," he said, obviously surprised. 

"I told you. If you tried it, you'd like it," she said softly. "A little 
more, please." 

He went back between her thighs and continued to lick and suck. In a few 
minutes he was rewarded by her trembling and quaking and cries of sweet 
release as she tumbled over and over into a repetitive orgasm. Afterwards he 
said, holding her in his arms, "Baby, you were beautiful." 

She felt something hard pressing against her thigh and looked down. The old 
bastard had another hardon! 

He was a king as he pushed his engorged penis into her again. This young 
lady had put new life, new breath, new rigidity into him. Now he would do 
anything to keep her happy anything to keep her his personal little girl. 

And, quite naturally, he was able to perform longer this time. Charlene thus 
had the benefit of another orgasm. And, for an instant, she found herself 
actually warming to the experience. 

Afterward they lay there, both well spent. Then, rising on an elbow and 
turning to Charlene with a new kind of attentiveness, Hershey said, "You 
know, I don't think I can wait two months to be with you again. And, well, I 
was thinking, since you'll be free for a while after your next market week, 
maybe we could work something out." 

"Like what?" 

"Well, if I send you the plane fare would you come to Utah for a few days? 
I'll put you up at the Hilton." 

"Gee, Hershey, that sounds great, but I'll be off salary so I'll have to be 
hustling for work. I'm going on that hair commercial interview Monday and I 
sure don't know what's going to happen from there." 

"Listen, with your looks you should be playing movie parts big parts. I can 
introduce you to the right people if you know what I mean." 

"Oh, my mother knows people too, but that doesn't get you the job." 

"I guarantee she doesn't know anybody as big as David Rotheimer. This guy 
would use ten-thousand-dollar bills for Kleenex if they were a little 
softer." 

"David Rotheimer! 

Do you really know him?" 

"Like a brother. Being a public figure, he's got to be careful of bad 
publicity, so he needs someone like me to fix him up quietly when he's out 
traveling around. And take it from me, baby, he loves young ladies like 
you." 

"And you think he might give me a part?" 

"Can you act?" 

"The only thing I've ever done was the lead in the school play but everybody 
said I was terrific." 

"You probably were. I got a feeling you're a natural. And besides, David 
prefers to get them raw so he can train them his own way. Says kids learn 
too much phony stuff in those acting schools. Sometimes it's impossible to 
unlearn them. 

"As for your mother now, understand, Charlene, I don't want to hurt your 
feelings the reason your mother never got anywhere in films was simply 
because she couldn't act. So you see, anyone you met through her would be 
automatically prejudiced against you. You're really far better off meeting 
people on your own before they know you're her daughter. Then there won't be 
any preconceived ideas about your ability." 

Charlene knew that what Hershey said was true. Her mother photographed like 
a living color dream and she was great in the hay, so if she'd had any 
talent she would have made it further than that awful B picture she was 
forcing on everyone at the house earlier. 

"When can you arrange an interview?" Charlene asked. 

Hershey immediately picked up the telephone and mumbled some numbers to the 
hotel operator. "You know his home phone number?" 

"Of course," he told her, winking. Then, "Is Mr. Rotheimer in?" he said into 
the mouthpiece. "Tell him it's ol' Hershey." 

A minute later, "Yeah, hi, Dave... No, I'm leaving tomorrow. You know these 
buying trips, not a minute to myself. I'll try to see you next time I'm in 
Los Angeles. Just a minute... "Get me a pencil and pad from that desk, 
baby... " Charlene jumped in compliance. 

"Okay, Dave, I got that. And listen, kiddo, speaking about prime 
merchandise, I got the snuggliest armful of natural beauty you ever saw 
right here, right now. She's a model in town, only sixteen, up for a hair 
commercial next week. Nobody's seen her yet. Thought I'd give you first shot 
at it might turn into a real discovery... No, no acting schools, either... 
Charlene Kane... I'll tell her... Love to Becky, too." He placed the phone 
back in the cradle, took a deep breath to compensate for his depletion, and 
then looked at Charlene. 

She now appeared as a young kitten hoping to be accepted into a new home. 

"You're to phone his secretary, Monday, for an appointment." He tore a fresh 
piece of paper from the pad and scribbled some figures. "Here's the office 
number, baby," he said, handing it to her. "Ya hungry?" 

"Starved," she answered, beaming. 

"Well, I don't want to order dinner sent up because I want to show off my 
little doll." He grabbed her and suckled a breast for a light-hearted 
instant. 

"But what am I going to wear, Hershey?" Her apprehension was quite 
understandable her gown by now had the appearance of a camel-driver's mufti, 
all the worse since Hershey's now-dried semen had cemented the wrinkles into 
place. 

"You get yourself back into shape while I go downstairs. I saw something in 
one of the shop windows that'd look great on you." 

After he'd gone and Charlene was busying herself, she discovered that she 
was bursting with happiness. What an odd outcome for a night which had begun 
so poorly. I've got the world by the tail. I'm finally getting a break. 

She looked in the mirror. I've got the face as she ran her hands over her 
curves I've got the body she patted her pubis and I know how to use this 
little fortune between my legs. And the funny part of it is, I'm only doing 
what I like best. I get bonuses and presents and maybe I'll even be a big 
movie star and all in return for just doing what comes naturally. 

If I've got ol' Hershey eating out of my hands... 7 can get others to do the 
same thing. Now I know what they mean by "pussy-whipped." 

Why, he's even buying me a dress retail! 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

Charlene sat in Mr. Rotheimer's spacious outer office. An actor's agent sat 
across the room with a nervous young girl who appeared to be about 
Charlene's age. Trying for the same part, Charlene wondered. Seated near the 
reception desk on the other side of the room, Charlene recognized an 
old-time actress perched on the edge of her chair, obviously concerned. 

It was so exciting all these things she dreamed about so long were actually 
happening to her! She remembered the first time she had been interviewed by 
Rotheimer, the feared King of Astro Studios. With a quick phone call and 
quicker questions he discovered she had won the hair commercial job. There 
had been only two others in contention also with long, silky blonde hair 
framing lovely faces but happily for Charlene, one spoke in a high squeaky 
voice and the other hammed up her gestures. The job was Charlene's, hands 
down, and as she had told her mother, she hadn't even had to go down on 
anyone. Sonja had replied that it was only a fluke and would never happen 
again. "Believe me, I know." 

When Rotheimer found out about the hair commercial he immediately decided to 
see the rushes since the commercial was being filmed on his own studio lot. 
These rushes were to serve as a minor screen test. Had to cut corners 
nowadays this was modern, corporate-minded Hollywood, not the old 
money-flinging film-center it had once been. 

The atmosphere, now, in Rotheimer's outer office, was the same as it had 
been that day when Charlene waited for her first interview with him tense, 
auspicious, a sense of majestic things in the offing. She had felt nearly 
panic-stricken that first time everyone conversing in hushed tones, those 
same hushed tones reverberating as if the room were a cathedral, and each 
person present acting properly sycophantic, as if to say that Mr. Rotheimer 
deservedly strode a cloud one level higher than God's own. 

She had found him both brusque and courteous that first interview not at all 
as she had expected. Stories of the "ogre Rotheimer" were well-known, just 
as were similar tales about all the other producers in Crazy-Town. 

His eagle eyes had linked into her own and stayed there. No roving at all. 
No non-business hints. Just those eyes. And, more than once, she had to turn 
away and break the link. 

Thank God, she had thought, that Sonja was working and couldn't accompany 
her. What Hershey had said earlier was more than correct, and Sonja would 
have taken over and babbled on and given an entirely wrong impression of 
Charlene, the girl, the model, the aspiring actress. 

Rotheimer had pressed her. "You're pretty young to be out working on your 
own, aren't you? I presume you're through school?" 

"Yes, Mr. Rotheimer. I was skipped a half a grade when I was in elementary 
school, then, a couple of years ago, all the L.A. schools were put on a year 
basis. All the mid-year students had to go either forward or backward. I 
couldn't see going backward, so I purposely gained another half-year." 

"Smart girl," he had said, drilling her again with his laser eyes. "You 
know, you're really going to have to be good. Because if I hire you, we'll 
have to have a welfare worker on the set and they're a pain in the ass. It'd 
be a lot easier to get a young-looking eighteen-year-old." 

Charlene only nodded. 

And it turned out that nod had been the right thing; Hershey phoned her 
long-distance to find out how the interview had gone, and told her then that 
Rotheimer detested anyone, broads in particular, commenting on anything but 
a direct question. Again, thank God Sonja hadn't been there she would have 
carried on about this and that, about how it would be "worth it" to him. 
Sonja might have even hinted at a "threesome." 

Too, Rotheimer had liked her portfolio of pictures. 

Getting those done in time for the hair commercial interview had been a 
story in itself. Saturday, after leaving Hershey at the airport, she had 
returned home to find a party again either the old one renewed, or a new one 
with many old faces. 

"Come and join us, Charly," Sonja implored. 

Looking past her mother, Charlene could see Jon and Lola on the living room 
floor performing a sixty-nine, and she felt a sudden pang of jealousy she 
hadn't even remotely imagined Jon with anyone but Sonja or herself. 

And then Nicky walked up to her, stark naked, and squeezed her curved 
buttocks. "Come on, cutie, I've just been aching to fuck you." 

Ignoring Nicky, turning to her mother, she said, "I can't, Mom. Don't you 
remember? I've got to get pictures taken, and you know how hard it is to get 
an appointment with a decent photographer on a Saturday." 

"Who are you going to?" Sonja asked, but Charlene barely heard her. Sonja's 
hair was hanging stringlike around her colorless face. She had excessively 
dark shadows under her eyes, and Charlene thought that she did indeed look 
fucked out. She couldn't help thinking that Sonja had better cut down on the 
booze and get more sleep. Otherwise there was no way for her to keep looking 
ten years younger than her true age. 

"Who is the photographer, Charlene?" Sonja repeated. 

"Oh, sorry. Jerome Carey." 

"Good. He's superb." And then, apparently aware that Charlene would not be 
joining them, Sonja drifted back to her party. 

Charlene gathered up half her wardrobe so she would have changes to make her 
look sweet, sexy, outdoorsy, sophisticated, bitchy, whatever. Then, after 
she had arrived at the studio with armloads of apparel, Jerome Carey had 
taken the majority of the photos either in a bikini or nothing. 

No wonder he was famous for achieving such sensuous photographic 
expressions. She never would forget how the lanky even gawky bespectacled 
young man had sexually stimulated her by tying a brief scarf around her 
pubis for a front view shot. He said he wanted something even briefer than a 
bikini bottom, just enough to cover the hair. Then, very innocently, he 
said, "I don't know what to do with the corners." 

Before Charlene could say or do anything, she felt him poking the ends into 
her vagina. She had felt a breathtaking thrill, but before anything else 
could happen, he quickly finished posing her, smoothed the scarf and snapped 
the photo. Then he kept rearranging her in different poses, each time 
straightening the scarf poking the little corners in tightly. By the time he 
was on the fifth photo she had a wanton expression that clearly said, "Fuck 
me. Please." (That, understandably, had been the photo that caught 
Rotheimer's eye during the first interview.) After the last of the photos 
had been taken, Jerome Carey said, "Okay, Charlene. That'll about wrap it 
up." She collapsed against the fur-covered cushions. 

He came to her and removed the scarf, being careful not to touch the soppy 
corners, and tossed it into the dirty wash container. Charlene remained as 
she was, nude, supine, as he began putting his equipment away. Finally, she 
asked, "Doesn't any of this ever turn you on?" 

"All in a day's work," he answered. Charlene couldn't determine just how 
serious he was. But she would find out. 

"How about now?" Her voice was husky. 

He peered at her over his glasses. "You mean you'd let me ball you?" His 
tone was unbelieving. 

"If you don't get that big cock in me right now, I'm going to scream," she 
replied hoarsely. 

Jerome Carey may have been a typically preoccupied artist, but it hadn't 
taken him long to get down to business with Charlene. Almost as if in a 
trance, the rangy bespectacled photographer moved toward Charlene. It was 
almost as if he was being drawn tropistically as a moth into a flame toward 
something he did not really understand or believe. Charlene, also beyond 
understanding this peculiar situation, wasn't sure now she wanted to accept 
this young man, but was herself somewhat beyond control. Both of them were 
by now victors who felt akin to victims. There was no way to avoid what was 
about to happen, despite the new reluctances. 

"Are you sure you want to?" His voice seemed to rasp. 

"I... I don't know. Don't you?" 

"It's all so hard to believe... I don't know what I... " Suddenly, 
Charlene's mind cleared and all she knew for sure was that she was turned 
on, on, on. "Come here, Goddamnit," she commanded, "and let me get those 
tight jeans off you." 

He moved to her, much as if she were a mother to be obeyed. When he was 
within arm's length she reached up impatiently and tugged him the rest of 
the way, at the same time wresting the jean buttons from the eyelets, 
pulling open the fly completely in a few wrist motions, exposing one of the 
most imposing staffs she had ever seen. Soft, it resembled a length of 
heavy-duty fire hose, and it wasn't staying soft. 

"My God," Charlene moaned to herself. "What am I supposed to do with this 
thing?" 

Answering herself, she leaned forward and pulled the mammoth penis toward 
her mouth, tilting her chin upward to meet it. But as it was pulled closer 
to her lips, she realized that there was no possibility of her actually 
encompassing the head of it with her little-girl-sized mouth. Sonja, 
herself, wouldn't have been able to do more than snuggle up to it as one 
might a cushion, and perhaps love it with a laving of the tongue... 

Which was also Charlene's solution. Tilting her head at a severe angle and 
pulling Jerome Carey's equipment upward, she was able to apply some delicate 
tongue-strokes to his balls, which strokes she shortly projected outward 
toward the tip of the cock, on the underside. 

"Oh, Jesus... sweet Jesus," Carey breathed. 

Why the hell am I doing this? 

Charlene thought to herself as she licked more and more. I'll certainly 
never get it in my mouth. Why the hell don't I just jack him off and hurry 
home? Maybe Jon will be there. 

And then a funny thing happened. The hitherto diffident and retreating 
Jerome Carey came alive sure of himself. 

"Lie back down, Charlene," he said, a new note of command in his voice. "Oh, 
honey, I don't know if... " 

"You told me to get my cock in you. Well, I intend to do just that." 

And then, before she was able to think, reply or resist, she found herself 
on her back with the insistent body of the photographer prying between her 
legs. Next she felt the imposing log certainly not a cushion insinuating 
itself into her vulva. And then she felt force actual force near-hurtful 
force, as the hot and rigid penis began making its way into her oily 
channel. The lubrication helped a little but... And then she was aware that 
she had been effectively entered. Not to the hilt, perhaps for the girth 
seemed too great that but enough so that she could feel a heavy pressure 
exerting itself far into her abdomen. It was painful, but it was also very 
heady stuff, and Charlene soon found herself throwing aside the pain 
sensations, accepting the idea of pure bull-like sex. 

And then, soon after Charlene had accepted the idea of such a physical 
assaulting of her youngish newly sexual body, it ended. There was a 
shuddering tremor which rumbled through Carey's whole body, and she 
experienced a hot gushing torrent which washed her insides for a second 
before re-cascading in the opposite direction, syringing out between his 
plunger and her tight vaginal lips and onto the cushions. 

Charlene didn't know whether to laugh or cry. 

She wondered now how he had ever managed to fuck her with that oversized 
cock of his, and now in retrospect could only recall his saying over and 
over, "I can't believe I could get so lucky as to ball you." 

As she drove home afterward, she hoped no one would be there, because, for 
the first time since her sex life had begun, her vagina was really sore. 
However, she was anything but unhappy. In fact, she felt marvelous. Jerome 
had said they might be able to work out something that he was sure he could 
sell some of her photos. So she'd probably end up with a model's wage 
besides all the free photos. How lucky since he charged a fortune for his 
work. So again she had become a double beneficiary. If, that is, she could 
ever learn to handle that massive cock! 

"Miss Kane, you may go in now," Rotheimer's secretary repeated, her first 
words having failed to raise Charlene from her reverie. 

"Oh! Sorry. I guess I was daydreaming." Charlene rose to walk into the inner 
sanctum and could not help but notice the pure resentfulness on the faces of 
the agent, the client, and the older actress, all of whom had been waiting 
longer than she. 

Please God, be good to me, she prayed as she entered the King's private 
office. This time she wore a short blue pinafore, very big in the early fall 
fashions and perfect for the proposed part. Besides, she had worn a long 
dress the first time, so now it seemed fitting for Rotheimer to have a 
better view of her long, sexy legs. 

"Well, miss," he said as she entered, "you come across very nicely on the 
big screen. If you can read the part the way you look the part, you're in." 
He handed her a script. "Go over in the corner and look at this." 

Charlene was speechless, which was quite all rightshe was expected to say 
nothing. With an aplomb which completely concealed her nervousness, she 
accepted the script and curled up in a chair in the far corner to read it. 
Quickly absorbed in the storywhich was good she was nevertheless vaguely 
aware of other people coming in, sitting down, chatting a bit, and then 
being dismissed. 

"All right, Charlene," Rotheimer said at length, "bring the script here." 

He found the place he wanted and told her to read. She read one line. 

"No! No! Charlene, see this photo?" 

He had her portfolio in front of him and was pointing to sensuous picture 
that had said, "Fuck me. Please." 

"This girl is wanton. She wants to be fucked. I know you can do it because 
it's written all over your face in this photo. Maybe you're a method 
actress. We'll try. Come here. No, over on my side of the desk." He pulled 
her down on his lap, an act which startled her. He had earlier seemed so 
businesslike. Even when he said, "Fucked," it had a "board report" tone to 
it. 

"You're a pretty little thing," he said, sliding his hand up under her skirt 
to the edge of her panties. 

This situation electrified Charlene. Although this "King" hardly appealed to 
her, she became creamy with expectation. She was apprehensive of reacting 
the wrong way, so she just sat there quietly letting his finger poke inside 
her panty leg, through her tendrilly wisps of pubic hair, over her excited 
clitoris and into her wet vagina. She was near to reaching a shattering 
orgasm when he stopped abruptly and sat her on the floor between his legs. 
Deftly he pulled down his zipper and took out his not-quite-hard cock. 

Charlene was on the floor, under Rotheimer's large desk, face to face with 
this very important, very regal, semi-hard penis. She knew what she must do 
the studio head expected some head. There was no doubt about that. And it 
had better be good. She took his penis carefully between her fingers and let 
her tongue slowly lick the tip and all the sides, then she gradually covered 
it with her warm mouth and swirled her tongue. 

"No, no, Charlene! Not like that!" 

The surprised girl raised her head, nearly hitting it on the underside of 
the heavy oak desk-framing. "No?" she repeated, surprise evident in her 
voice. 

"My dear, if I may be so bold, how long have you been doing that?" 

"Why, not long at all, Mr. Rotheimer." 

"And may I inquire where you learned your technique?" 

Charlene recalled how Hershey had reacted when she had told him the truth. 
This time she would be more convincing. "Well, you may not believe this, Mr. 
Rotheimer, but my mother taught me the fundamentals. I practice on her 
boyfriend a lot." 

Rotheimer seemed unshaken by this information. "Well, if that's the case, 
I'd say your mother wasn't nearly the expert she thinks she is. You've got a 
lot of the ideas down okay, but you don't have any well-developed sense of 
touch or response." 

"I don't?" she inquired incredulously. 

"No... but I think you could, if you tried. And, of course, if you had a 
good teacher." 

"Oh, yes, Mr. Rotheimer. I do want to be good and everyone knows how hard 
I'm willing to work to learn something." 

Again, Rotheimer proved himself to be a man of decision. He looked at his 
watch, much as if to say they might be tied up for quite some time. Charlene 
could tell that he was about to expound at length about this act which was 
apparently important to him. She rearranged herself on the floor under the 
desk so that she would be more comfortable, but would still be essentially 
in the same position he had placed her just in case he turned out to be 
sensitive about such things. 

Rotheimer first spoke into the intercom. "Miss Stern, I don't want to be 
disturbed for now. I'll let you know." 

The secretary acknowledged this, and then Rotheimer turned to Charlene. 

"Charlene, you seem to have overcome the first hurdle that is, you accept 
fellatio as a fact of life. You apparently realize that there's nothing new 
about it, nothing bad about it. You've got the hardest part of it licked." 
He paused to smile at himself, then went on, "So now it shouldn't be any 
problem for you to go on into the mechanics of the thing." 

"Sure, go ahead. I'm game." 

"All right, Charlene, but I hate to ever waste my breath... so if I'm going 
to give it my all, you must promise to do the same thing. You must listen 
hard." 

"Agreed," she answered quickly. 

"Okay. Now first let me tell you that sucking a cock seems like a simple 
enough thing on the surface you take a cock, pop it into your mouth and 
start sucking on it as if it were a peppermint stick. Which isn't too far 
off-base, unless you happen to believe, as I hope you do, that anything 
worth doing at all is worth doing well. As a matter of fact, plain old 
fucking would profit a lot from the same kind of thinking. I can't begin to 
tell you how many times I've heard a woman complain about something like, 
'He sticks it in and rattles it around just as if he were stirring soup with 
a wooden spoon.' Now isn't that a hell of a way for someone to think about 
something as beautiful as fucking?" 

"That's terrible." 

"Good. We're of a mind. Now, on to cocksucking. It's my belief that before 
you can do a good job on one, you have to first understand what a cock 
really is physiologically, that is." 

"I think I know what a cock is." 

"We'll see about that. Do you know what an 'accordion' cock is? 

"A what?" 

"That's what I thought. So you'd better let me start at the beginning." 
Rotheimer paused to pour a glass of water from his desk carafe, and then 
began. "The size, Charlene, and particularly the shape of a man's cock has a 
great deal to do with the way a girl should fellate it. For example, if it 
curves up like a cutlass when hard, the only lady who would be able to 
accommodate it frontally would be one who was afflicted with a cleft palate. 
By frontally I mean the classic sucker-kneeling, suckee-standing position. 
So obviously this type of instrument has to be approached in a prone 
position so that the curvature of the penis matches the natural curvature of 
the soft palate leading to the esophagus that's the throat; and this will 
result in a mutual meeting in the standard 'sixty-nine' position." 

"Oh! I know what that is, Mr. Rotheimer." 

"I'll bet you do. Anyway, let me go on. The average prick curves neither up, 
down, nor markedly sideways, and these straight ones are really the joy of 
the ladies I know who suck a lot of cock and thus are discriminating. The 
size should be moderate and the shape consistent, and the glans should be 
neither bulbous nor too small, and, as an optimum, let's stipulate that the 
shaft should be uniformly cylindrical with just about the same diameter from 
tip to root." 

"My goodness, Mr. Rotheimer, you're starting to sound like a college 
professor." 

"No harm in that, my dear, provided I don't lose you. That isn't happening, 
is it?" 

"Oh, no, I understand you. Go on." 

"Yes, yes... where was I? Oh, yes. I was about to tell you something about 
the consistency of men's pricks. Remember, I asked you if you knew what an 
accordion cock was, and you didn't know?" 

"Yes." 

"Now, we're down to that. Charlene, there are two basic types of cocks, and 
each gives a misleading appearance. There is, first, the 'half-hard' or 
'hanging' penis which makes a striking appearance when in its natural state 
and leads the fellatrice to believe she's in for quite a battle with it. The 
hidden flaw in this machinery is that it doesn't get much larger it might 
increase in size, say, from five inches to six nor does it get appreciably 
harder. It retains a kind of India-rubber consistency, even at its hardest." 

"I don't think I've ever seen one of those." 

"You will as you start to circulate a bit. Now let me tell you about the 
other much more common type of cock. It is the 'accordion cock' I was 
mentioning earlier sometimes it's referred to as the surprise package. It 
looks quite small when the bearer is unexcited, sometimes appearing to be 
little more than a swelling on the groin. It is, when fully flaccid, 
literally withdrawn. It would appear this is not the most desired type of 
prick for a man to have, yet this insufficient member often erupts upon 
excitement into a rather formidable instrument of many times its original 
size and a much greater hardness than the 'half-hard' type. Sometimes these 
cocks can provide a mouthful like you wouldn't believe." 

"That's the kind I'm used to, I guess," put in Charlene, who was now 
beginning to wonder if the whole day would be devoted to this sort of thing. 
She was dying of curiosity to find out what Rotheimer had to say about the 
script and the part, and exactly what it was that sexy photograph of her had 
to do with it all, but she knew better than to interrupt the "King." She 
thought for a moment to say or ask something that might be more pertinent to 
the business at hand, but quickly discarded the idea. 

"You must understand, then, Charlene, that appearances deceive and that a 
girl cannot really predict what nature of work she has at hand until she 
actually assumes the project." 

"All right, Mr. Rotheimer. I promise I won't make any premature judgments 
I'll make up my mind only after I'm into the thing." 

"Good girl. Now then, I think I should tell you that the best or ideal cock 
for purposes of sucking is one that is just less than fully hard. To be 
expertly treated, it should have some resiliency and give. Recall, the mouth 
is not like a vagina; it has three surfaces which must be kept out of 
contact with the penis or, at least, extended contact. These are the teeth, 
the palate, and the under jaw structure since they are all hard surfaces. 
The sought-for contact, of course, requires manipulation and know-how, and 
it can really be gained only from a lot of experience." 

"Really, Mr. Rotheimer! I know that much. I've never been accused of biting 
or scraping. Mom isn't exactly stupid in that department, you know." And 
then realizing she might have been too forceful in her outburst, she added, 
"I'm sorry I didn't mean to interrupt." 

"I don't blame you, if you think you're correct. But, to be perfectly honest 
with you, Charlene, I'm certain that I felt your teeth scraping around the 
head of my cock when you were starting on me." 

"Really?" 

"Yes, really. That's one reason why I'm going into all of this. Now, may I 
go on?" 

"Certainly." Charlene resumed her sitting position. 

"The idea is for the fellatrice to capture in the cavity of her mouth 
bounded only by lips, inner cheeks and upper throat a certain vacuum. This 
is done by controlling the breath. When the cock enters, this trapped 
pressure acts as a pump, as the penis moves back and forth. The cheeks now 
must maintain a certain flexible consistency so that an exciting pressure is 
sustained. The fellatrice must also sustain a certain amount of resistance 
to both the pushing forward of the penis and the moving backward so that, 
for example, were it to be withdrawn unexpectedly, there would be a kind of 
soft, wet pop. It's precisely the kind of sliding with-and-against pressure 
that one experiences when he tries to free the cork from a bottle of 
champagne. One can twist this way and that, pull it, push it, all within a 
small area and fairly easily, but it becomes more difficult as you reach the 
mouth of the bottle. Then all of a sudden, pop! 

"That, essentially, is the proper method of fellating a cock. There are 
variations, of course, and I have devoted very little time to the topic of 
preparation. For one thing, preparation seems to be quite variable for that 
matter, it really should not require any discussion. It is a sad commentary 
on human sexuality for us to need to spell it out. And yet, the world seems 
heavily populated with people who understand little, if anything about the 
'warm up.' " 

"You mean like when a guy feels me up and works his finger up there?" 

"Well, yes, but you've got to understand that it works two ways." 

"The guys I know all seem super-ready all the time." 

"It's not that simple, Charlene. Just as low speech, tenderness, whispering, 
touches and caresses are all part of the preparations for fucking, so are 
touches and tickles and kissing and licking part of the preparation for 
fellatio. First of all, kissing and licking lubricates the shaft with 
spittle, excites the person about to be sucked off principally since it 
gives him a nice hardon, and, believe it or not, it produces a corresponding 
excitement in the lady about to do the sucking." 

"Oh, yes, I know that. The minute I start licking around a guy's balls, 
even, I start to get wet." 

"Certainly you do. That's because the fellatrice, quite beyond her conscious 
knowledge, prepares herself by means of this type of reflex excitement to 
mentally accept the length of the cock deep into her throat without 
discomfort or nausea. It is a matter of continuing surprise to me that such 
dainty mouth, narrow throats, and thin, tight lips can provide such pleasure 
and can be pumped so forcefully and penetratingly by the extremely large 
cocks which are exactly what such girls seem to always seek out. Not only 
that, these delicate little flowers of girls seem to get great satisfaction 
even ecstasy out of tackling these whoppers. But, really, when you stop to 
think about it, the whole thing's simple. The girls were prepared for it. 
They prepared themselves. The whole act was destined for success, from the 
outset." 

"I understand what you're saying, Mr. Rotheimer, but that makes it only that 
much more difficult to understand something else." 

"What's that, my dear?" 

"There wasn't any warm up involved when you just threw me under the desk and 
asked for a blow-job. 

Why did you do that?" 

"Well, Charlene, sometimes my schedule... " 

"In other words, don't do as you do, do as you say." 

Rotheimer permitted a small laugh. "Yes, I suppose you could say that. But I 
promise you one thing, young lady it won't happen again like that." 

"Oh, I didn't mind I just thought I'd mention it because I didn't understand 
it." 

"Fair enough. Anyway, right in line with what we're talking about, let me 
emphasize that it's just no good taking someone on cold and that goes for 
both parties, and for all sexual practices. Both parties have to be properly 
warmed up, properly aroused, in order to extract the maximum of pleasure 
from whatever it is one chooses to do. Preliminaries are worth the time they 
take, because sexual activity is not a matter for one person only, but for 
two, and the difficulties, the gasping, the gagging, the premature 
ejaculations, the pre-orgasmic fumbling and the post-orgasmic shame are all 
the result of improper preparation. In one sense, all sexual acts are the 
same in that you must really want to do them before you can ever really do 
them well. The only acceptable 'high' identification with the act must be so 
great that at the height of pleasure the act must be a kind of Zen 
self-induced automatic response you really shouldn't be able to tell where 
the edges of your body leave off and your partner's begin." 

"Oh, yes, that's the way I want it to be with me, every time," Charlene 
sighed. "That would be so beautiful." 

Now it seemed that Rotheimer was himself caught up in the spirit of what he 
was saying. Even as he finished this last, his hand strayed downward and 
began a light feathery massage of his penis, which was still less than 
erect, but growing. 

"Now, then, do you think you can perform a more thoughtful and attentive job 
this time?" 

"Well, I'm sure willing to try, Mr. Rotheimer." 

"Go ahead, then, but try to remember all that I've told you, and try very 
hard to put your whole being into the act. Think of my cock as a precious 
flower that is just beginning to bloom, and you are going to caress each 
petal until it is strong and ready." 

This time it was a transformed Charlene who addressed herself to Rotheimer's 
penis. First she decided she wasn't content to just have his cock peeking 
through the fly of his pants. She lifted his buttocks a bit with the palms 
of her hands and then urged his trousers down until she had a workable 
freedom. His heavy scrotal sac was now fully visible, and his half-hard 
penis lay atop the two balls, lazily but proudly. 

Charlene placed the upturned palm of each hand under a thigh and gently 
forced the legs apart and a bit upward, exposing the buttocks and the area 
beneath the balls. Slowly she showed her affection for Rotheimer's equipment 
by gently nuzzling her nose into the curling, patchy, wispy hairs that 
bushed about his genitals. Then she started a light blowing of warm breath 
into those same hairs, while at the same time making an effort to spread 
apart the legs even farther, her hands on his inner thighs, working their 
way upward toward the balls. Her touches now were delicate, flicking 
caresses feathery, tapping feels ten teasing fingers on those sensitive 
balls. Her breath was coming and going more insistently. She enjoyed 
exploring all the way to the bridge of the anus with lightly drawn sharp 
fingernails across the rigid puckering and all the while the cock was 
unattended, waiting, supreme. 

"Oh, yes, baby, the asshole... strum it like a guitar." 

She smiled to herself, but was not distracted. 

Next she began to hook her elbows beneath his knees so as to completely 
spread-eagle him and gain total freedom of access, but at this point 
Rotheimer interrupted her. She heard him speak into the intercom and 
instruct his secretary to come into the office, and even as he spoke his 
eyes peered down upon her and said, Don't you stop for one second. 

My, God, Charlene thought, suppose the secretary sees me! But she kept 
sucking as she thought. Of course, there's a large chair in front of the 
desk which should serve to hide me, but even so my God! She heard the 
secretary enter the office and quietly close the door even as she continued 
sucking on the now-hard cock. Won't she wonder, Charlene considered, where 
I've disappeared to? 

"Sit down, Miss Stern." she heard Rotheimer say. A rustle of skirts told her 
that Miss Stern had indeed placed herself in a chair at the side of the 
desk, but Charlene refused to allow herself to be distracted from this 
highly important man who obviously considered cocksucking to be a highly 
important art form. She kept on with her work. 

Rotheimer, by the sound of things up topside, was leafing through some 
papers, and after some preliminary instructions to Miss Stern very slowly 
dictated a letter. Charlene could feel a gradual growth in Rotheimer's cock 
as it gained new degrees of hardness as if ready to burst. 

With what seemed deliberate timing, he finished the last words of the letter 
with a sigh which signaled the first spurt of semen which became a torrent 
into her mouth. She tried to swallow it quietly, since Miss Stern was now 
reading the letter back to her employer. 

He, in turn, kept orgasming with lesser and lesser spurts all the while the 
letter was being read, and managed to emit a last few drops even as Miss 
Stern was repeating the address. It seemed, without exaggeration, that he 
had extended his active orgasm for a full two minutes to Charlene an 
unbelievable performance. Then, as the secretary left the office, Charlene 
continued busying herself as she licked the softening sixty-year-old manhood 
clean. If Miss Stern had noticed anything she did not let on. 

"You can come up now," Rotheimer said, reaching far down and grabbing 
Charlene by the crotch to help her. As he stuck his finger into her wetness, 
he said, "You're not a journeyman cocksucker yet, little girl. But you're 
certainly coming along fine. Let's hope your acting does as well." Then he 
chose a page from the script and said, "Now, read this." 

Suddenly Charlene found herself trembling with a mixture of excitement and 
fear. But she managed to read the line. 

"That was just fine, young lady! Just fine." He was exuberant. As he stood 
to pull his pants up, he added, "I'm going to make an actress out of you 
mark my word." 

Watching him fumble with his trousers, Charlene jumped forward saying, "Let 
me!" She knelt before him and pulled his trousers back into place, but not 
before taking the now-flaccid penis gently in her hands and placing a full 
kiss on its tip. 

Rotheimer continued, "Take the script home and get into the part. You'll 
receive your contract in the mail. It'll give the dates of your commitment. 
You'll get a call next week for wardrobe fittings. Do you have an agent?" 

Charlene was flabbergasted at the speed with which everything was happening. 
"No," she answered. 

"On the way out, ask Miss Stern for a list of reputable agents. You'll 
eventually need one for negotiations. But, for God's sake, don't hand that 
contract over to a relative of friend to handle for you. I won't tolerate 
amateurs." 

"Oh, yes I mean no, Mr. Rotheimer. I just don't know how to thank you for 
the part." 

"I'll let you know how. And when. Goodbye for now." 

"Goodbye," she said. "And thanks again." 

Then Charlene floated out the door, right past Miss Stern, not even really 
aware there was such a person. Only when she was nearly out of the office 
did she remember about obtaining a list of agents from the secretary. She 
reversed her field just long enough to get the information, somehow managing 
to avoid Miss Stern's eyes. 

Charlene had mixed emotions: elation over getting the part and depression 
over being sexually frustrated. As she walked to her car, which was parked 
in the "special permission" lot, she passed attractive young men dressed in 
Army uniforms returning from lunch. She felt the recent lack of sexual 
fulfillment surge through her. She felt the walls of her vagina harden and 
the sopping wet lubrication slopping against the crotch of her panties. Talk 
about men getting nut aches, she thought. It can't be worse than the ache I 
feel. Oh, to get one of those uniformed sex symbols behind a flat for ten 
minutes! 

Think about the part! Think about the part! 

At home, Sonja was waiting anxiously for news, wishing fervently that her 
daughter had the part more fervently, it seemed, than she had ever wished on 
her own behalf. She had just walked to the window for the twentieth time 
when she saw the familiar sports care drive up. She watched carefully for 
telltale signs as Charlene got out of the car, smoothed her skirt, and began 
walking toward the house. My God! Her daughter didn't even seem to be 
elated, much less bursting with song, as Sonja would have expected. Oh, God, 
didn't she get it? She had planned on running to the door upon seeing the 
happy child and throwing her arms around her, and then they would laugh and 
hug each other and marvel at how great her future would be. Charlene the 
bright star Sonja should have been... Sonja, finally at the top through 
Charlene... Sonja and Charlene one. 

She stood frozen as Charlene entered the house. 

"Mother," she heard Charlene call. 

"Here I am, dear," Sonja heard herself say. Her voice was even, steady, 
without emotion. 

Charlene stood at the living room archway, her face impassive. 

"Charlene, there'll be other parts... " Sonja began. 

Charlene laughed. "Mother, I got the part!" A smile broke on her face. 

Sonja rushed to hug her daughter. Relief made her voice crack. "Baby, how 
could you torture me like this?" 

"I didn't mean to mislead you, Mom. I guess my mind was just somewhere 
else." 

"Well, you sure looked like death warmed over, walking from your car." 

"Actually, I was thinking about the part." 

"I knew you'd get that part, baby nothing can stop you now. So for Christ's 
sake, loosen up and be happy. You should be singing from the clouds." 

Charlene shrugged and flopped on the green velvet couch. "I am happy, Mom, 
about the part. But I'm confused about something else." 

In a few minutes, Sonja had the story from start to finish of Charlene's 
experience in Rotheimer's office. At the conclusion, Sonja said, "Unless 
you've left something out, I still don't know what the confusion could be. 
You're sitting on top of the world, baby." 

"Oh, Mom, can't you understand? I felt so funny. After all that instruction, 
and then going down on him, and then him sticking his finger up my panties 
again, I thought he was going to make love to me. But no. He sent me away so 
hot I could have fucked the doorknob on the way out." 

Sonja burst out into a hearty laugh. "Oh, baby! Now, tell me, do you really 
want that old man to put his cock into you? Or maybe go down on you? What 
did you expect him to do? 

"Oh, I don't know. Even Hershey took care of me in return." 

"Not the first night. I remember how you came home and practically tore Jon 
from my bed." 

Charlene acknowledged the memory. "Yes, but he made an attempt. He just 
wasn't any good. You don't understand. I feel... " She broke off. Then 
indignantly she added, "Imagine having his secretary in there the entire 
time I was sucking him off!" 

Sonja laughed. "People have all kinds of strange hang-ups. That's probably 
the only way he can get his jollies." 

"Mother, there's only one way I can put it. I felt degraded." 

Sonja wasn't laughing now. She became very serious and very firm. "Charlene, 
I'm not going to see you blow this whole, new, beautiful career why, 
everything's laid out before you, just for the taking. Stop this romantic 
bit of nonsense. You weren't degraded. You were playing the game. And if you 
want to win the game you have to be smarter than the next guy. It's not all 
luck. You have to plan your moves well and know when to play them." 

"But is it all really just a game, Mom?" 

Sonja stared at her daughter. Then she quietly said, "Somebody once said, 
'All's fair in love and war.'" Still Charlene didn't seem to snap out of it. 
Finally Sonja said, "It's all happened too fast. And you've probably gotten 
everything too easily. I suppose there is something to the old saying that 
no sensation is worth much unless you've known its opposite." 

"Opposite?" 

"Yes, dear. You know peace only means something to someone who's known war; 
freedom has real meaning only after one has lost it. Well, success doesn't 
mean much to you right now simply because you don't know anything about 
failure." 

Charlene eyed her mother curiously. "Mom, that's the most beautiful thing 
I've ever heard you say. You're really concerned about me, aren't you?" 

Sonja was forced to swallow to keep her voice from cracking. Then she 
smiled. "Don't be so serious, darling." 

Charlene studied her mother. Then she answered, "Okay, Mom." 

The older woman savored the moment, and then, as quickly as she had 
softened, she reverted to her old self. 

"Go have a nice swim. Jon will be home from his tennis match soon. After a 
couple of hours with him, the world will look rosy again." 

 CHAPTER NINE 

The days had flown by in a feverish whirl of wardrobe fittings, wardrobe 
stills, publicity stills, publicity interviews, and cast readings with the 
director of The Best of Nothing. Now, two weeks later, the Great Day had 
arrived. Charlene had hardly slept the night before not only had the 
excitement mounted to a screaming crescendo, she had found herself worrying 
about the clock not going off at six A.M., even though the telephone service 
would also ring her at that time. She just wasn't used to rising at such an 
ungodly hour. But the make-up call was at seven so as to have her on the set 
at nine. Not that she would be in makeup all that time. No, after her face 
was completed by a studio expert, the hairdresser would grab her, then the 
wardrobe lady. Next, she would walk from her dressing room out onto the 
sound stage a facial tissue tucked in at the neck to protect her dress from 
the pan-stick and to the edge of the set where her specially emblazoned 
canvas chair awaited her. She could, of course, wait in her dressing room 
for the assistant director's call, but she was far too excited to sit in 
there alone; besides, she wanted to watch the shooting of other scenes. 

As she showered and dressed, her mind was buzzing so much had happened 
recently, she could hardly put it all in place. For instance, Sonja, who 
never got out of bed in the morning unless forced to do so by a job of her 
own, had earlier this day prepared breakfast for Charlene and the sun wasn't 
even up yet! Charlene had complained that she couldn't stomach anything at 
such an uncivilized hour, but Sonja had insisted. And besides, the 
"ex-actress" explained, "We're troupers now and I just had to wish you luck 
on your first day!" Charlene had arranged a pass for her mother to come onto 
the lot for lunch and watch a little of the shooting, but Rotheimer had 
strictly forbidden Sonja's "hanging around" afterward. He said that mothers 
on the set always bottled up his young actresses. It was bad enough that a 
welfare worker would be required. 

"Good luck, baby," Sonja said, giving Charlene a hug at the door. "I know 
you'll be great. See you for lunch." 

"Okay, Mom. And thanks." 

"Jon said to give you a kiss for good luck, too. You know him, he can't get 
up unless he has a job to get to himself." 

"I know. He wished me luck last night." Charlene remembered how he had 
massaged her and then given her the "special Jon treatment," but still she 
hadn't slept well. She hoped the make-up man would be able to erase any 
shadows from her eyes. She recalled how she had arranged for Jon to get a 
small part in the film which would come up in a week or two, a glorified 
bit, really. She also recalled, with a shudder, how she had swung that deal. 

But now, as she drove down and around the curves of Laurel Canyon to the 
studio, she flipped her mind back even further to the day she had signed the 
contract. Hershey had called her, was thrilled for her, then furious when he 
found out she had a clause in her contract that said she could not fly 
unless it was job-related for the duration of the shooting. 

"What the hell is this?" he had shouted long distance, "I get you the 
introduction to Dave and now you can't even fly up to see me?" 

"I'm sorry, Hershey. I didn't write the contract." 

"Why'd you sign it?" 

"You mean you'd have me give up the part if they wouldn't let me fly?" 

"Well... Goddamnit, you wouldn't even have the part if I hadn't sent you to 
Dave." 

"Anyway, Hershey, my agent read the contract and asked for changes on what 
he thought was important. And he didn't even mention that." 

"Your agent! What the fuck do you need an agent for?" 

"To look out for my interests." 

"Bull!" 

In truth, of course, Charlene was delighted with that clause. She had no 
desire to fly to Hershey's home town and be holed up in some out-of-the-way 
motel. In fact, she had no desire to see him again, at all. She certainly 
had no desire for him. She didn't have to worry about "ole Hershey" or his 
account any more. 

"Besides, Hershey," she had continued, "they're keeping me so busy with 
publicity trying to build up a public image before the film is released that 
they're fixing me up with dates for previews and night clubs on the 
weekends." 

That was when Hershey had exploded. "God-damnit! My girl! Not only can't you 
come visit me for one lousy weekend, but they're fixing you up with every 
Don Juan in Hollywood!" 

"Come on, Hershey," Charlene said sweetly, although she felt like telling 
him to shove it up his ass, "you've got a wife and family. I'm only sixteen. 
I'm not ready to be anybody's mistress." Sonja had always cautioned her to 
hold her tongue no matter how difficult it was, because in this business you 
never knew who might knife you in the back. Although it was doubtful Hershey 
could do her any harm at this point, it was senseless to make an unnecessary 
enemy. 

"Well, wait till I tell my dear friend Dave what I think of him!" 

Charlene knew Rotheimer would laugh Hershey off, but he'd never give in he'd 
made that clear. Of course, he would go to great lengths to make it up to 
Hershey in other ways. Rotheimer had indicated quite clearly that he was 
very interested in his young find, and definitely did not want her public 
image to be that of courtesan to an older man. He had, indeed, gone out of 
his way arranging dates for Charlene dates with budding eighteen and 
nineteen-year-old studio stallions. 

Of course, that public image hadn't interfered with what went on in the 
privacy of his office under his desk. 

For that matter, Hershey wasn't the only one who was annoyed. Sid Morris had 
suffered near-apoplexy when he discovered Charlene would still be working on 
the film when he would be needing her for the holiday showing. 

"Half the samples have been fitted on you, Charlene! More than that, even," 
he thundered. "I'm a perfect size ten, Mr. M. I'm sure an agency can find 
another model for you." 

"No one else has your great tits and cute ass," he moaned. "And I mean, 
literally no one!" Charlene couldn't conceal a smile in return for the 
ill-humored compliment. "I'm sorry, Mr. M., but you wouldn't really expect 
me to give up a movie career to model for Hollywood Sun-wear, would you?" 

"Well... I guess not, but Goddamnit, it was Hershfield who got you in, and 
it was through me you met him." 

Charlene thought it was ironic how men would invariably sell a girl on the 
idea of playing along because they could do them some good. And then when it 
really did happen, they seemed to think the girl might not grab at the 
opportunity. Mr. M. seemingly didn't realize that if she made a hit in the 
film she probably wouldn't ever model for anyone ever again. That being the 
case, Rotheimer would pick up her contract for more films and perhaps TV and 
maybe even the moon. And certainly a successful actress didn't model only 
now and then would she exchange her services in return for publicizing 
films. 

Traffic was no problem not this early in the morning. Charlene tried to 
think of the day ahead of her her lines, the camera action, the wanton young 
girl she was playing but her mind would have none of it. Her mind, instead, 
seemed riveted on the day she had asked Rotheimer for a favor something she 
would never do again. No matter what. The recollection was just too 
distasteful. 

"Could I ask a favor of you, Mr. Rotheimer?" 

"Certainly, my dear. But you know, I'm sure, that one good favor deserves 
another." 

"Of course, Mr. Rotheimer. Anyone knows that." 

His usually severe face lit up at that. "Very well, Charlene. What can I do 
for you?" 

"Do you know Jon Avon?" He nodded. 

"He's a good friend of my mother's. And well, he'd be just perfect for the 
part of Dick... " Rotheimer tapped his cigar, then began to chew on it. 
"Yes, I guess Jon for that particular part would be perfect typecasting a 
bum playing the part of a bum. He can't act his way out of a paper box, you 
know." 

Charlene first bristled, then flushed. She knew that Jon would be perfect 
for the part of the good-looking narcissistic young stud, if he would just 
act himself which was roughly equivalent to what Rotheimer had just said in 
overly pejorative terms. It was a small part only a cameo role, and both Jon 
and her mother had conducted a relentless campaign to induce her to speak up 
for Jon. "That's how parts are gotten," Sonja had said. "That puts you in 
ahead of the other guy who's waiting with his agent." 

"Suppose I agree right now, Charlene?" 

"Would you really do that, Mr. Rotheimer? Right now? Without an interview or 
anything? For me?" 

"Why not? I know what he's done and I know he can do the part. Besides, it 
doesn't really matter. The director I'm signing could get a performance out 
of a dead man." 

"Oh, Mr. Rotheimer, that's terrific," Charlene said, bouncing up from her 
chair. "I don't know how to thank you." 

"Sit down, Charlene," Rotheimer replied, lighting up the cigar. Obediently, 
Charlene sat. Rotheimer's words had produced a fear a chill. Rotheimer 
leveled a hard stare at the young ingenue, and continued. "Have you ever 
made it with another female, Charlene?" 

"What?" 

"Have you had a woman make love to you?" Rotheimer's speech had now become 
quick and slick very salesmanlike. "I hear there's nothing quite like it. I 
know for a fact there's nothing quite like watching it." 

Charlene felt sick. Was this the favor in return? She was quite prepared to 
go under his desk and play their little game, but making it with another 
girl? The idea revolted her. 

"Oh, Mr. Rotheimer. No, I've never done that. I can't!" 

"Can't, Charlene?" he smiled. "Or won't?" His face remained stony. 

Charlene was on the verge of tears. "Let me go down on you, Mr. Rotheimer. 
That'll make you feel better." She raised from her chair. 

"Stay where you are!" he ordered. Charlene slumped back, thoroughly subdued. 

"You're a very fortunate young lady, Charlene. Do you know that?" He didn't 
wait for a reply. "You have beauty, brains, talent. But there are some poor 
females who have no beauty, barely adequate brains, and talent for only the 
pedestrian things in life. They lead very unglamorous, dull lives. You could 
bring a little glamour and happiness into such a life, Charlene. It's a 
great thing to have the power to give another human a little sunshine. Think 
about it, Charlene." 

Charlene just sat, suddenly very small and pale. "May I go home and think 
about it, Mr. Rotheimer?" 

Rotheimer laughed. "I'll give you two minutes to think about it. Right now. 
Poor Miss Stern has been pining away for you since the first day she saw 
you, Charlene." 

Miss Stern! 

Charlene could hardly believe what she heard. She now realized that Miss 
Stern knew what went on under Rotheimer's desk she had dropped her pencil 
once or twice, and when she went down to retrieve it had certainly noticed 
Charlene. But never had a word been said, and Miss Stern had maintained the 
fiction that she knew nothing. That was part of the game. 

But Miss Stern actually wanting Charlene herself? That boggled the mind. 

"She's a fine secretary," Rotheimer went on, as if talking to himself. 
"Quiet girl. Doesn't make friends easily. I feel she deserves a bonus now 
and then." 

Charlene swallowed. She was to be the bonus? My God! But Charlene also knew 
that if she ran home to tell her mother that Jon wouldn't get the part 
because she had refused such a request, Sonja would be furious. Jon, too. 
They would also say it was just part of "the game." 

"Just consider it business," Sonja had said when Charlene had complained 
about her under-the-desk-routine. "Don't get emotional about it," Sonja 
counseled. "Just do a good job. Remember, you're an actress now." 

If she told Sonja, this very minute, about Rotheimer's proposal, her mother 
would probably say, "Well, if you're going to have a woman go down on you, 
at least you won't come home unsatisfied and upset, like you've been doing." 
In fact, Charlene remembered her mother telling her how, at a party, a girl 
had gone down on her and it had been terrific, but she didn't really dig 
women so had never let it happen again. Further, she couldn't reciprocate 
cocks were her thing. "But," Sonja had confided, "I suppose I must admit 
that it was a good sexual experience." 

"Your two minutes are up, Charlene," Rotheimer was saying. "Of course, you 
can forget it, you know after all, there's no reason for you to pay for Jon 
Avon's favors. Or is there?" He pierced her with eyes that seemed to know. 

The answer now seemed simple. If she refused, and Sonja discovered it, 
there'd never be peace again. Worse, Jon might not ever make love to her 
again. And he was the best. Those kid actors she had been forced to date had 
turned out like just so much cold dishwater they were just too concerned 
with themselves. 

And, then, of course, there was her contract to be considered. 

Charlene sat quietly, hands folded in her lap. Finally, in a low, 
conciliatory voice, she responded, "All right, Mr. Rotheimer." 

"Good girl," he said quickly, displaying no emotion. He stubbed out his 
cigar in a huge ashtray. "You won't be sorry." 

Into the intercom he said, "Miss Stern. Will you please come in? I have that 
special assignment you've been asking about." 

Miss Stern appeared at the door immediately. She wore a droopy, high-necked, 
long-sleeved blouse, knee-covering skirt, clunky shoes, no make-up other 
than pale lipstick, her hair done up in an old-fashioned bun. She looked 
like her name. 

She closed the door and locked it carefully behind her. Charlene vaguely 
wondered who was going to mind the store. 

"Let your hair down, my dear," Rotheimer addressed his secretary. "You'll 
frighten the child." 

Miss Stern's face broke into a rather pathetic half-smile. Then, when her 
dark hair fell about her shoulders, the improvement was immediate and 
startling. 

She walked directly to Charlene and took the girl's hand. "Come over to the 
couch with me, Charlene." The words were spoken as half-command, 
half-request. 

Charlene as if in a trance allowed herself to be led. Miss Stern began to 
undress her slowly, kissing her breasts as her blouse was removed, then 
caressing her thighs as her skirt dropped to the floor. Finally, Charlene 
stood in her bikini panties. 

Charlene felt as if she would faint. She found herself trembling with both 
excitement and horror. Miss Stern's touch was delicate, sensitive, knowing. 
She carefully gave Charlene's body little thrills feeling her in just the 
right spots and with just the right touch as she undressed her. It was as if 
Miss Stern was a fine pianist, and the secret points of response on 
Charlene's body were the keys of the instrument. 

"Look at her, Dave," Miss Stern said. "Isn't she lovely?" 

"She certainly is," he agreed. Behind the desk, he had unzipped his fly and 
begun fondling his penis. "May I sit down?" Charlene heard her own voice 
croak her knees felt so weak she thought she might collapse. 

"You may lie down, my sweet," Miss Stern replied, helping her onto the sofa. 

Charlene was a trembling mass by now. She was spread out on the sofa with 
Miss Stern sitting on the edge of it next to her. She leaned over and kissed 
her full on the mouth. Her tongue demanded response. Her hands caressed 
Charlene's hard-nippled breasts, then one hand moved down into her wetness. 
Oh, yes, she was wet in spite of herself. She was a mixture of love and hate 
love of sex, hatred of herself for being wanton. As wanton, in fact, as the 
girl she was portraying in the film. Now she realized why she was, indeed, a 
"natural" for the part. 

A shock ran through her entire being as she felt Miss Stern's tonguelike a 
butterfly on her clitoris. That was just a teaser, for then she withdrew and 
licked Charlene's inner thighs high, near the pubic hair with feathery 
brushstrokes. She worked her way to the pubic hairs, which she licked apart. 
Charlene was a mass of erotic expectation by the time she felt the loving 
tongue lap in exploration around the pink folds of her lower lips. At this 
point, Charlene thought she would die if she did not soon feel the marvelous 
tongue directly on her small pink bud of flesh. Just as she felt she could 
stand no more, she felt the first licks. It was like rich velvet against the 
excited bit of flesh. As she was moaning with pleasure, she felt the speed 
of the fluttering tongue increase. It was the tongue of an artist. Against 
her will not really against, for her will was completely overpowered by the 
other woman she went into uncontrollable spasms of continuous orgasms. She 
reached a pitch of excitement and gratification that left her almost numb. 

From somewhere in outer space, she heard Rotheimer say, "That was beautiful, 
Rona. Beautiful." He sounded as if he had come, too. 

She lay there spent, yet unrelaxed she was too humiliated to open her eyes. 
Then, suddenly, without warning, she felt a plunge into her vagina by a 
powerful, insistent, very authoritative cock. Her eyes flew open to the 
sight of Miss Stern, an enormous flesh-colored dildo strapped to her hips, 
fucking the life out of her. And, even as Charlene was recoiling from 
surprise, she discovered that she was beyond herself, beyond all control, 
all reasoning. Soon she was meeting Miss Stern's plunges with eager delight. 

The two of them were in a frenzy now, meeting each other joyfully, moaning, 
screaming with pleasure. As Charlene's back stiffened and she went into yet 
another orgasm, Miss Stern Rona joined her. 

On the other side of the room, Rotheimer's simultaneous handmade orgasm was 
no less glorious. 

Later, at home, Charlene poured out the story to Sonja. The troubled girl 
had hoped for understanding, perhaps even sympathy. Instead, she evoked keen 
interest even periodic applause. 

"Mother, you don't know how awful it made me feel. Imagine! Having a woman 
making love to me!" 

"From what you told me, you had a hell of a good time." 

"I just had a hell of a lot of orgasms, Mother." 

"That's what I call a good time." 

"Mother, it was only sex. Fantastic, 'way-out sex, but still, just sex. Not 
love. I don't feel emotionally satisfied." 

"Oh, poor baby," Sonja had cooed, obviously unsympathetic to Charlene's 
reasoning. "Look," she added, as she picked up the morning newspaper from 
the coffee table. "Look what I saw in the paper today." She opened to a page 
of mink-coat ads long minks, short minks, all kinds of minks. "This is what 
you should have... a floor-length mink to wear with long dresses and it even 
zips off so you can wear it with short dresses. Isn't it exquisite?" she 
rattled on enthusiastically. "Terribly expensive, but you'll need the best 
for your premieres this fall." 

"Mother! I'm talking about something important. Not mink coats!" 

"Darling, what can be more important than a mink coat? Don't forget, we 
women always feel better when we buy something new. That'll be your little 
treat to yourself. You've worked so hard. You deserve it." 

"Little treat! A five-thousand-dollar mink coat?" 

"So what! You've got to put up a good front." 

"Hershey sent me a fur-trimmed coat before he got mad at me, and it's 
stunning. It's all I need." 

"It's nice for lesser evenings, but it's not fur, dear. It's fake fur." 

"All the better, Mother. It's the rage. You don't have to kill animals that 
way. Some day there won't be any more fur coats because we'll have killed 
all the animals." 

"Well, then, that settles it. You better hurry up and buy the mink coat 
before the price goes up." 

"Oh, Mother!" Charlene had become exasperated. How had Sonja twisted this 
into a conversation about furs, anyway? She had wanted to have a 
heart-to-heart talk with her mother. And look how it had ended. Good God! 

Somehow, for reasons now forgotten, Charlene did get the mink. The best. 
Seven thousand dollars worth, in fact. 

Charlene shrugged off the memories as she drove on to the studio lot. The 
policeman in the booth knew her well by now and simply waved her on with a 
smile and a salute. In fact, all the studio workers were friendly which 
seemed to make the whole work experience pleasant. She felt so accepted, so 
casual, that it gave her a jolt to be addressed as "Miss" instead of by her 
first name. 

And then there were the people who acted as if she were royalty. The caste 
system was prevalent in the motion picture industry, no doubt about that. 

As she neared her parking spot not far from the sound stage, an excitement 
surged through her. My first day of shooting on a real picture! Life was 
wonderful. 

She parked her car and walked on to the stage with new zest. 

 CHAPTER TEN 

Charlene, so tired she was numb, dragged herself into her car for the 
journey home. At least, the heavy traffic had by now diminished, she 
thought, but that was poor compensation for the killing hours she lately 
found herself working. 

Driving through the gate, she waved goodbye to the policeman a different one 
from the morning, of course. They, at least, worked sensible eight-hour 
shifts. There was, in fact, an orderliness in their lives that Charlene now 
missed in her own. Everything was topsy-turvy, it seemed, and everyone 
working on the picture seemed to be affected. 

For instance, consider the old established actor, William Elders, who played 
the part of Charlene's father in the film. William Elders was used to having 
the shooting schedule worked around him. And now he had a minor for 
competition. The production man must have had a lot of fun working out the 
shooting schedule, Charlene thought frivolously. Usually, Elders wouldn't 
accept a make-up call before eight A.M. and wouldn't shoot after six P.M. 
And there was never an argument, for he had it writ-ten in his contract. 
Now, of course, there was no argument, either, but for utterly different 
reasons. 

They hadn't yet "wrapped" when she and Elders left the set. They were still 
shooting scenes without either of them. Charlene thought they must all be 
wacky with fatigue by now. Particularly the crew, who arrived before anybody 
in the morning to set up. 

They had all been very nice to her. In fact, everyone treated her like a 
princess. Elaine, her stand-in old enough to be her mother even managed to 
embarrass Charlene by waiting on her hand and foot, forever bringing coffee 
or milk, volunteering to run errands and so on. Charlene smiled as she 
recalled Elaine's shock when once Charlene had brought her coffee, as she 
was standing under the hot lights. 

Stand-ins really have to work hard, Charlene thought. How luck I am. It 
seems they spend half their lives under the blistering bulbs waiting for 
cameras to be set up at just the precise angle and with exactly the correct 
lighting. At least I'm getting the money to compensate for the hard work. 

The cameraman had told Charlene that it would be much easier as soon as she 
learned the ropes. She had never before realized, when watching movies, just 
how much technical expertise there was to it. For instance, she had to 
concentrate on not moving a fraction out of her key light else a shadow 
would be thrown on her face. At the same time she had to remember her lines 
and really throw herself into the part. And then, just when she was truly 
feeling it, the director would yell "Cut!" Many times when she thought it 
was perfect, he would call for another take because there had been some 
technical difficulty. The golden words were, "It's a print!" 

Her little car virtually drove itself up and over Laurel Canyon. It was 
almost six the clock had gone all the way around since that morning. All she 
could think about now was a nice hot bath, and a quiet dinner with Sonja and 
Jon. By that time, hopefully, she would be rested enough to answer all their 
bubbly questions. 

She was especially thankful that Sonja hadn't tried to stay long after 
lunch. She had just caught one of Charlene's scenes, told her she was great, 
and then taken off a million things to do, she said. 

Home at last! Charlene drove the little car into its resting spot. She 
didn't immediately notice that cars were parked all up and down the street. 

She limped up the steps and opened the front door to a crashing sound. 
"Surprise!" 

There was a blur of smiling, drunken faces some she recognized, most not. 

She stood at the doorway, stunned. 

"Charlene, baby," Sonja slurred, taking her by the waist. "Are you 
surprised, honey?" 

"I sure am." She was still motionless. "Come on, baby, I want to introduce 
you around. Hey, everybody, quiet! The star is here." Charlene flinched. 

She saw Jon, Nicky and Lola, and even Mr. M. All else blended into bleached 
hair, long dresses, silk shirts, and flowing booze. 

Charlene loosened herself from her mother and started for the stairs. 

"Hey! Where you going, baby? You haven't met everybody let me get you a 
drink." 

"You can bring it to me in the tub, Mom." 

"The tub! This is your big celebration. First day in the movie!" 

"But it's not my last, Mother, and I have to get up at six again tomorrow. 
And I'm starving. Is there any dinner?" 

"Oh, there's lots to eat. Bring that tray over here, Paul." Sonja motioned 
to a tall Negro in white. Charlene sampled a couple of hors d'oeuvres, which 
were predictably unsatisfying. 

"Have you met my daughter?" Sonja asked a swilled couple, before Charlene 
had a chance to flee. "She's going to be a big star someday." 

The couple could have cared less, being only interested in the tray of 
tinkling drinks which floated by. Charlene ducked out while she had the 
chance. 

The privacy of her bedroom had never seemed so appealing, Charlene thought 
as she entered. But no sooner was she inside that she encountered the 
unmistakable grunts and moans of a laboring couple. 

She traced the sounds directly to her own bed, where she saw the couple high 
in the throes of sexual rapture. They didn't even have the decency to take 
down the bedspread, she thought irritably. Well, fuck them! Then she 
spontaneously giggled, thinking they were already doing a pretty good job of 
that. Or perhaps really not so good, on second thought, as they were both so 
loaded they seemed to be functioning only with difficulty. Completely 
unnoticed, she grabbed a change of clothes from her closet and made for the 
bathroom. 

She opened the door to find a woman passed out in the commode. There was a 
terrible stench of vomit. 

Charlene gagged, flushed the toilet, then dragged the woman out to the 
bedroom where she unceremoniously deposited her on the floor near the 
moaning couple who still noticed nothing. 

My God, how long has this party been going on? 

Again in the bathroom, she opened the window to air it out and ran water and 
bubble bath into her tub. What a nightmare, she thought. How could Mom be so 
stupid as to think I would want to have a party after my first day on the 
picture? 

She should have known better. After all, she had done a couple of parts. Of 
course, that was ten years ago, but still, could she have forgotten how 
demanding the picture business is? Maybe that's why she never got anywhere 
always too busy living it up to work on her part. Well, I'm not going to do 
that! I've had to put out too much to flub it. But wouldn't you think Jon 
would know better. After all, he's still in the business. Of course, he just 
works a few days here and there. It's not the same as carrying a large part 
like she was doing. 

Wearily she removed her clothes and cleaned her face. She had just pinned 
her hair up and stepped into the tub when a distinguished-looking older man 
walked into the bathroom. Or swayed, rather. 

"My, God, didn't I lock the door?" Charlene blurted out angrily. 

"Sure you did, honey, but you can't keep Norry the Cat out of a room he 
wants to get into." He waved a credit card at her. "These cards will open 
any inside door if you just slide them in the crack the right way." 

"Well, hooray!" Charlene said furiously. "Don't you have any respect for 
other people's privacy?" But, obviously, there would be no answer 
forthcoming. Charlene's heated anger turned to rage. "Why don't you just get 
the hell out of here!" she screamed. 

Instead of retreating, the man quietly and calmly began to take his clothes 
off. "Now just what the hell do you think you're doing?" Charlene spat, 
barely in control of herself. 

"I'm going to take a nice bubble bath with you, baby." 

"You do, and it may be your last," she answered, acid in her voice, but just 
the same she washed quickly so she could be leaving as he entered. 

She was by now livid. She had counted on a hot relaxing bath and now she had 
to jump out as fast as she had jumped in. She gazed, with loathing, at the 
loose hanging flesh that exchanged places with her. "Hey," the man 
complained as he slipped around trying to get out while Charlene speedily 
patted herself dry. Sensing that he might not be able to make it out by 
himself at all, she applied her after-bath lotion, permitting the man to 
look on hungrily at her lithe body. 

"The soap's in the dish," she said sarcastically. "You may as well get clean 
while you're there." 

"You aren't being very nice to me," he hiccoughed. "An up-and-coming star 
should shine down kindly upon the dead suns of Hollywood." Charlene looked 
more closely at her bathroom companion. My, God, she said silently to 
herself, it's Norris Templeton. He was once a big star. Now, he's come to 
this a bathtub masher? A penniless lush? God, Mom must have dug up all her 
old comrades from her movie days. What was she trying to prove? Renewing old 
acquaintances of long gone years to flaunt her daughter? How pathetic. Her 
fury melted into something near compassion. 

When she was dressed, ready to leave her bath-mate to his own devices, she 
went to the tub and pulled the plug. "Just so you won't drown," she said. 
She'd have to find Jon or someone else to help Norris Templeton out of the 
tub. 

With glazed eyes, he was smiling angelically as she left the room. The 
couple on the bed had finally petered out and were snoring, as was the woman 
on the floor. God, Charlene thought, what did Mom do, slip everybody a 
mickey? 

When she finally located Jon among the weaving bodies, she found that he, 
too, was in a bad way probably unable to wrest old Templeton safely out of 
the tub. 

Maybe Nicky could help. She caught sight of him across the living room, but 
he was molesting a young actress, and she decided he would be no better. The 
only ones strong and sober enough to help were the waiters, so she relieved 
Paul of a tray of goodies and directed him toward the bathroom. 

After eating a few of the delicacies, she passed the tray around. 

"Serving at your own party, Charlene?" 

She turned to face Mr. M. 

"My God, Mr. M., it's good to see you. You're the only sober one at this 
party outside of the help and me. How come everybody's so potted?" 

"Your mother started this wing ding at four o'clock, and since most of the 
guests are 'in between' jobs, they arrived promptly." 

Charlene simply shook her head disgustedly. 

A short, thirtyish man who had played kid parts until his lined, puffy face 
had caught up with him bumped into Charlene, at the same time purposely 
arranging for his mouth to meet her bust. "Being a little guy's not all 
bad," he wisecracked. A few bystanders laughed drunkenly at the tired joke. 

After he had gone on his way, Charlene turned to Sid Morris. "I don't know 
what I'm going to do, Mr. M. I'm bushed, I'm starving, and I'm supposed to 
be up at six looking young, rested and beautiful. I couldn't even relax in a 
hot tub because some old actor wanted to join me. My bed's occupied by a 
couple of passed-out drunks and so's my floor. And I'll bet this party goes 
on till the wee hours." 

"I have the perfect solution, Charlene. I also find it wearing to be around 
a lot of drunks, so why don't you do an old man the honor of going out to 
dinner with him? Also, pack a bag and you can spend the night at my house. 
There's plenty of room." 

"Oh, Mr. M., you're a doll. A genius, too. But isn't that an inconvenience?" 

"Not at all. Just think, someday my wife will be able to brag about having a 
big star under our roof. Get your things and meet me at my car. It's down 
the road. You can follow me in your car. I'll watch for you." 

On the way back up to her bedroom, Charlene had a problem getting through 
the throngs of people. She tried to chat amicably with each as they stopped 
her with bits of senseless conversation and gushing "Little Charlenes." She 
thought she would puke if she heard "Just think, our little Charlene has 
grown up to be a big movie star" one more time. 

She pinned a note to her mother's bedspread not that Sonja would be sober 
enough to read it and managed to slip out of the house. 

They sat opposite each other, Charlene happily devouring a shrimp cocktail. 

"You're a life saver, Mr. M. I would have died a terrible death if you 
hadn't saved me." 

"It's my pleasure, Charlene. Believe me. I would have been flattered to have 
escorted Charlene, the model of my humble wholesale house, to dinner. But to 
escort Charlene, the movie star that is a real honor!" 

Charlene blushed. She knew that although Mr. M. was saying it jokingly, he 
meant it he really liked her. Suddenly she thought about the day in his 
office when he went down on her and just as suddenly she felt the heat surge 
through her, down to her groin. He was nice, she thought, really nice. And a 
very attractive man for his age, at least. 

"Don't you ever take your wife to parties, Mr. M.?" 

Mr. M. laughed. "Oh, my, no. She wouldn't know what to say to anybody at a 
wild Hollywood party. She's a quiet woman. Shy. Doesn't drink. No, she's 
much happier playing cards with her friends." 

"Oh, then she's out, too. You're not keeping her waiting." It was a 
statement rather than a question. The waiter replaced the empty shrimp 
cocktail bowls with steaming clam chowder. "I've never been here before," 
Charlene said. "Their food sure is scrumptious." 

"It's pretty new, but has taken over as one of the top seafood restaurants 
in town." 

They savored their food in silence for a few moments. Then Charlene said, 
"Mr. M., I want to ask you something." 

"Shoot." 

"Well, I could understand if my mother had a party with a bunch of top 
directors and producers and columnists. That would be her choice of 'right 
people' for me to meet to get ahead. But how come, after my first day of 
work, when she knows I'm dead tired, she has to throw a big wing ding 
inviting all her old thespian friends and broken-down playmates?" 

"Just showing off, Charlene. Believe me, if she could have gotten a lot of 
prominent people to come, she would have. I think she feels that when the 
picture's released and a smash hit, they'll be glad to come to parties in 
your honor, but right now the best she can do is show off in front of her 
old cronies." 

"But she's had her own success." 

"It was all very third-rate, Charlene. You're her real hope. She believes 
you'll become one of the top stars, and so she has transplanted all her 
dreams to you. Don't be too harsh with her." 

"Oh, I'm not Mr. M., but... it's just that sometimes I feel that I'm the 
parent and my parents are the children. You should have heard them battling 
on the phone the other day." 

The lobster arrived, and Charlene continued, "My father called. He'd 
apparently been reading my publicity. He started blasting my mother, saying, 
'I hope you're happy now that you've turned our daughter into an expensive 
Hollywood whore!' Mom retorted, and I quote, 'That's better than your 
fucking lady friends! What're they? Cheap whores because they sleep with you 
and you're the cheapest bastard in the world!' Then she crashed the phone 
down. He rang again and she wouldn't answer it, or even let me answer it." 

Mr. M. listened gravely to Charlene's pathetic story. He couldn't help 
thinking that she had turned out at seventeen more of a person than his own 
two sheltered daughters were at thirty. Not only were his Becky and Ruth 
sheltered, but they were spoiled rotten. Reared mainly by their mother, they 
had been raised to believe a woman's function was to keep house for her 
husband, bear his children and spend his money. Her duties occasionally 
included giving the old man a little poontang. But never repeat, never could 
the lady-wife be expected to participate in any sexual endeavors other than 
the "wholesomely" normal. Those other little diversions were left to whores. 

"Charlene," he said, breaking away from his private thoughts, "I once said 
it takes more than beauty to make it. Besides the second quality, brains, 
there is one more quality needed to make it to the top. That quality is 
integrity. And you have it. You know when to work and when to play. A very 
important thing to know. Many girls in your position would say, 'What the 
hell there's a party I'm going to have fun.' But not you. You know you have 
to be rested for tomorrow and must also know your lines. You're a 
responsible person. You're going to get the work done, and do your best. 

"I sure miss you at the plant. It's not just that the new girl can't hold a 
candle to you in looks it's also that eager quality of yours I miss. You 
throw yourself into your work, whatever it may be. Of course, I'm delighted 
about your success. But, understand, that doesn't prevent me from missing 
you." 

Charlene felt proud. She knew that Mr. M.'s compliments were not just 
vacuous words. She treasured his opinion. 

"If it hadn't been for you, Mr. M., I wouldn't have gone out with Hershey 
and I wouldn't be where I am today." 

"I've told myself the same thing, Charlene. But I don't believe it any 
more." 

"How can you say that?" 

"Because I think you'd make it one way or another, sooner or later. You've 
got what it takes." 

"Well, anyway, Mr. M., I still feel I owe you a lot. And I hope I'll be able 
to make it up to you leaving you as suddenly as I did." 

"Oh?" His face lit up. 

She continued, "Mr. Rotheimer intends to make a TV series from the film if 
it's a success. I've been thinking about this. I think I can promote a deal 
between Hollywood Sunwear and the series. You know, you supply me with the 
wardrobe and Hollywood Sunwear gets named in the credits." Charlene thought 
about how Mr. Rotheimer couldn't consider that doing her a favor since it 
would save him a fortune in production costs. Both Mr. Rotheimer and Mr. M. 
would gain from such an arrangement. 

"Charlene, I always did say you have brains! That's a great idea! And for 
arranging the deal, I would give you the wardrobe." 

Well, we'd all gain, thought Charlene. Aloud, she said, "Keep it strictly to 
yourself, though, so no other manufacturer gets wind of it and approaches 
him first." 

"Don't worry, I'm used to keeping secrets." Charlene smiled. 

"The dinner was delicious, Mr. M. Thanks." 

"My pleasure. Would you like some dessert?" 

"No thanks. The camera adds an automatic ten pounds, they say, so I mustn't 
add even an ounce." 

"And I just plain old have to watch my waistline," he answered with a 
twinkle. "Shall we go, then?" 

"Your house is lovely," Charlene said after they had parked their cars. It 
was a prepossessing Mediterranean style with an abundance of foliage, a 
well-trimmed lawn. "It's a far cry from the streets of New York." 

"Oh, were you brought up in New York?" 

"Until I was fourteen. Then my father got a job offer and moved out here. Of 
course, not here," he said, indicating the immediate neighborhood, "but L.A. 
However, it was like leaving the snarl of the jungle for the purr of a sunny 
cove. At the age of fourteen, I decided to never go back." They had arrived 
at the top of the walkway. He stopped talking and struggled with the lock. 

"Welcome to Morris Manor," he offered, with a sweep of the palm. 

"It really is like a manor," Charlene said, glancing around the large 
entrance hall. "Your wife isn't in yet?" 

"Hell, no don't expect her for another hour, at least. Come on, I'll show 
you to your room, give you an alarm clock and point you in the direction of 
the phone so you can instruct your service." 

Charlene followed him up the winding staircase, down the hall and into a 
large, comfortable bedroom. 

"There's a bathroom right here," he said, opening the door to a spacious 
tiled area. "There are clean towels on the rack. You may want to continue 
your rudely interrupted bath. In any case, I'll look in on you in a 
half-hour and see if you need anything before you turn in." 

Charlene had just slipped between the crisp sheets when the knock came. Sid 
Morris entered, clad in silk pajamas and a silk robe. He was carrying a 
glass of sherry. "Thought you'd like to have this. Helps you sleep," he 
said. 

"Oh, Mr. M., you're so thoughtful." 

He handed her the glass. "You look just like a little girl with that 
scrubbed face and that fluffy baby-blue nightie." He sat on the edge of the 
bed as she sipped from the glass. 

She giggled. "I feel like a little girl waiting to hear a bedtime story from 
her daddy." 

"Well, actually," Sid said as he scratched his chin, "I thought you might 
tell me one." 

"That's a twist," she laughed. 

"That was such a nice story you told me about Hershey and you after the 
first time you went out with him. 

And since I haven't seen you for a while, I thought you might have some new 
material. What about the producer or director of your movie? There must be a 
nice sexy story hidden there somewhere." Charlene looked downcast. "Oh, I 
don't think so, Mr. M." 

"Oh, come on, now." He took her chin and brought her face up and saw a 
sadness in her eyes. "What's wrong? Tell Daddy M." 

"It's just that... well, Mr. Rotheimer, the producer, is really a sort of 
evil man." 

"Oh, really?" he asked excitedly. "Why don't you tell Daddy all about it?" 

After he dragged the stories of Mr. Rotheimer's sexual appetites from her 
reluctant lips, he said, "Well, Charlene, you shouldn't really think of him 
as evil. After all, there are many perfectly nice men who like to have their 
cocks sucked under a desk." He felt a bit self-conscious. 

"It isn't that, Mr. M., but you know, having his secretary come in while 
it's going on and all... " 

"Hmm, hadn't thought of that one." 

"But what it really is, is his attitude. He is just plain unkind. Then 
forcing me into the lesbian thing with his secretary, knowing it disgusted 
me... and then, to make it worse I kept having orgasm after orgasm... 
unwillingly, of course... " 

"Yes, yes, of course," Mr. M. said, salivating. "You poor baby. Of course, 
the really unforgivable thing was sending you away those other times without 
making you come first. That's a real example of unkindness. He must have 
known how hot you were." 

"Oh, yes, he felt me. Down there, you know. He reveled in the knowledge he 
had me all worked up." 

"You poor baby," he said, taking her in his arms to comfort her. 

"Oh, Mr. M., you're such a nice man," she sighed, enjoying the comfort of 
his arms. "I wish I'd had a daddy as kind and gentle as you." 

"And I wish I'd had a little girl as sweet and delicious as you." 

When Mr. M. said "delicious" a bell rang in the back of Charlene's mind. 
Again she recalled the day when he had gone down on her. She began to tingle 
at the thought. 

He stroked her hair and kissed her on the cheek. "Do you think you can sleep 
now that you've told me my bedtime story and had your glass of sherry?" 

She looked up at him, her wide blue eyes still innocent despite all they'd 
seen. She hesitated, then stuttered, "I... I usually have something else to 
put me to sleep." 

"What, my dear?" When she didn't respond, he said, "Tell Daddy. What else do 
you need to put you to sleep?" 

She looked down, her long lashes casting a shadow on her cheeks as she said, 
"Jon fucks me every night." 

"Oh, that's sweet," he cooed in her ear, then kissed her on the neck and 
moved her nightie off her shoulder so he could cup a pink-tipped breast in 
his hand. "But Daddy isn't too good a fuck any more. However... " 

"Oh, he sucks me too... sometimes, instead," she added hurriedly. "You 
little doll. You want Daddy to sue baby, so baby can sleep?" She nodded. 

He took her breast in his mouth, then slipped his hand up under her fluffy 
nightie. "Oh, what a wet little pussy," he exclaimed, delightedly. "Just a 
minute." He jumped up. "I have to close the door." 

"Don't forget to lock it." 

"It doesn't have a lock." 

"But suppose your wife comes home?" 

"I'll hear her car. She brings it by this side of the house. I'll just turn 
off the light and open the shutters, so she won't see a light from this 
room." 

The moonlight poured in as he opened the shutters. 

Charlene threw back the bed covers. "Daddy M., why don't you take your 
things off and lie down with me? We can suck each other at the same time." 

Sid Morris's highest expectations were exceeded. "You sweet little doll. You 
mean you're going to put those precious lips over my old, large cock? You 
don't have to, you know. Daddy's going to give his baby a good cum anyway." 

"I know, Daddy M., that's why I want to because you're such a good, kind 
daddy." 

In a flash, Sid Morris had shed his clothes, and before Charlene could have 
any second thoughts on the matter his very rigid, silk-skinned old cock was 
poking at her mouth. He had arranged himself in the classic sixty-nine 
position, side to side. 

As she felt his tongue flick at her clitoris, she moaned and opened her 
mouth and let her own tongue swirl and flick at her new daddy's penis. 
Together the man and his newfound daughter sucked lovingly on each other's 
center of sexuality. 

After a momentary exploration, Sid Morris stopped long enough to say, "You 
have the sweetest-tasting little pussy in the world the taste of honey." 

"And my Daddy has a big beautiful, delectable cock," Charlene responded. 
They both continued to suck greedily. 

After another busy interlude, during which each participant was brought 
agonizingly close to the edge of passion's explosion, Charlene stopped to 
say, "Wouldn't Daddy like to fuck baby a little bit?" 

Sid relinquished his mouth from Charlene's lower lips and managed to huff 
and puff his way atop the young girl. Only after considerable 
juxtapositioning during which it seemed his stomach just would not get out 
of the way, Sid Morris finally felt his penis encased in the warmish, 
wettish vagina. It was almost too much. He was so consumed with the passion 
of refound youth he could not restrain himself, or even slow the furious 
stroking long enough to get a deep breath. 

Charlene knew the desperation of his need, and simply hugged his waist 
closer with her thighs, her long legs hooked by the ankles high up at his 
neck. "Oh, God, you feel good, Daddy," she sighed. She continued meeting his 
thrusts, pump for pump. 

"Easy," he managed to gasp, "I don't want to come." He stroked in and out 
much more slowly now. 

"Better stop," he panted at length, rolling off. "Oh, God, I forgot how good 
it can be. Haven't fucked anybody but my wife in years." 

"You still fuck her, then?" Charlene asked, while re-arranging herself back 
into the soixante-neuf position. 

"About once a month she decides she had better perform her wifely duty and 
puts on a black lace nightie. That's the signal." 

They put their mouths to each other's genitals again and carried on where 
they had only moments before left off. 

Soon Charlene felt overwhelmed by sensual heat. She was gushy-hot and 
utterly sexual through and through. Then, overcome by a sweeping rush of 
heat, culminating with a stiffening of her back, the sweet release of 
multiple orgasms shook through her. 

Her partner, feeling her grand reaction, simultaneously experienced a newer, 
higher, exploding passion than any he had known since youth, a passion which 
he immediately spilled into her mouth. Charlene could barely gulp fast 
enough to keep up with the heavy blasts of semen. 

They sucked on, licked each other slowly until the last spasm quieted into 
mutual satisfaction. Then they rested quietly face to crotch crotch to face. 

Suddenly Sid Morris jumped up. 

"My God! I didn't hear the car drive in!" 

He grabbed for his robe, shoved Charlene under the bedcovers, and kicked his 
pajamas under the bed. He just managed to tie on the robe in a crooked 
fashion when the door opened and the light flashed on. "I thought I heard 
noises in here," a voice announced from the doorway. 

"Yes, my dear, it's me. I have a little guest here... Charlene. I'm sure you 
recall my mentioning my ex-model Charlene who is now Charlene the movie 
star?" 

"Oh, yes, I do!" Mrs. Morris Adelle twittered with delight. 

"Poor thing couldn't get any rest at her house wild party there so I knew 
you'd be happy to have her stay here with us." 

"Oh, yes, I'm delighted," Adelle trebled. 

"Charlene, I want you to meet my wife." 

"How do you do, Mrs. Morris." 

"Glad to meet you, Charlene. I hope you'll be comfortable. What time would 
you like to have the maid bring your breakfast? 

"Oh, please, Mrs. Morris. I have to get up too early to bother anybody else. 
I'll get something to eat at the studio." 

"Nonsense. What time do you get up?" 

"Six." 

"Oh!" 

"Just leave some orange juice in the fridge, Mommy. And leave out an instant 
breakfast Charlene can mix with milk." Sid Morris, now fully recovered from 
his shock, was keenly aware that the maid could easily be put into a temper 
tantrum. 

"Yes, that would be wonderful," Charlene agreed. 

"Very well," Adelle said with relief. "And since you have to get up so 
early, I'll say good night now. Rest well. And I do hope you'll come back 
sometime when we can chat." 

"Thank you, Mrs. Morris. Good night." 

Sid Morris took a deep, grateful breath of relief as Adelle closed the door 
after her. "Oh, Daddy M., I'm a nervous wreck," Charlene said, hugging her 
face with her hands. "Not half as nervous as she is." 

"She? Nervous? Why on earth should she be nervous?" 

"She doesn't meet a glamorous movie star every day." 

"My God!" Charlene reached out and rubbed her hand up and down over Sid's 
hairy leg. "Do you think she saw your bare legs?" 

"Not a chance. She's so nearsighted she wouldn't have noticed if I'd been 
bare." 

"Sure. That's why you grabbed your robe as if the house was on fire." 

"Well, there's no use pushing luck. Is there?" 

Charlene smiled. "I love you, Daddy M." 

"And I love you, sweet baby." 

"But now I'm so nervous I don't think I can sleep." 

"Oh, poor baby. You want Daddy to kiss you again?" He patted her proud 
wet-haired muff as he asked. 

She looked up at him, seductively wide-eyed. "Uh huh." 

Sid Morris made a move to position himself between the sculptured legs. 

"But your wife? Do you think she might come back in here?" 

"Not a chance." 

"Are you sure? How do you know?" 

"I know her. She's in there now, removing her clothes, cleaning her face, 
taking her bath. It'd be an hour before she'd even miss me." 

He pulled the covers off Charlene and spread her legs open. Then he pulled 
her fur-covered lips apart and applied his warmish tongue against her 
excited clitoris. Again he licked and sucked her into a joyful release. 

"Thank you, Daddy M. Nightie night." 

"Nightie night, little girl." He bent over and kissed her on the mouth. "My 
little adopted girl. Remember, you've always got a home with Daddy M." 

"Mmmm." She was already curled on her side, almost overtaken by the halcyon 
incubus of post-sex sleep. 

 CHAPTER ELEVEN 

Sonja was still furiously straightening up the house when she heard 
Charlene's car brake to a stop out front. 

"The place is still a shambles. Thank God the cleaning lady comes tomorrow," 
she muttered aloud. 

No sooner had Charlene entered the house than Sonja sprang like a tigress. 
"So! You finally decided to come home! I've never been so humiliated in my 
life!" 

Charlene leaned back against the front door with exhaustion. "If I had the 
strength, I should be the one screaming, Mother." 

"You ungrateful brat! That party was in your honor. And you walked out." 

"I'm sure I was never missed, Mother! Everyone was so loaded they hardly 
noticed me when I came in. On top of that, I talked to nearly everyone 
before I left. Can't you understand that I have a large part in an important 
picture and I can't party all night long and then do my job properly the 
next day?" 

"Stop pampering yourself. One night doesn't hurt. You're young and strong." 

Charlene, wanting very much to drop the subject, shifted tactics and asked, 
"Where's Jon?" 

"He's playing tennis." 

Charlene flared up. "Oh, I see. The two of you sleep most of the day away, 
and then Jon's got enough energy to go tennis-playing in the middle of the 
night. But I was supposed to stay up helping to entertain a bunch of lushes 
and then go to work this morning!" 

"You wouldn't even have the Goddamned part if it wasn't for me!" Sonja 
screamed. 

"Oh, really?" Charlene questioned with quiet iciness. "Just exactly how did 
you come to that farfetched conclusion?" 

"Who the hell got you started? Who planned your career? Who taught you 
tricks of the trade? ME! Me! Your mother!" Sonja's voice was now screeching. 
Charlene closed her eyes a moment. Then she said, "Tell me, Mother dear, do 
you think I would have gotten anywhere if I hadn't been good?" 

"We're not talking about that. We're talking about getting you started. And 
I got you started." 

"And now it's up to me to keep on going. That's the hard part. That's where 
the work comes in, Mother. I'm sorry you're angry about last night. To tell 
you the truth, so was I. I couldn't figure out how anybody could be so 
selfish as to have a drunken brawl on a work night. Christ, I wasn't even 
able to get into my bathroom without pulling out a passed-out broad first, 
or my own bed without bumping into a fuck scene. It was more important for 
you to show me off than to let me get my much needed rest. I don't call that 
helping." 

"You don't have to act like a little shit!" Sonja spat. 

"And you don't always have to resort to name-calling," Charlene snapped 
back. "Now you sound superior, just like your fucking father!" 

Charlene swept past her mother and on up to her bedroom, but Sonja was on 
her heels. Randomly Charlene threw clean clothes into a suitcase. 

"And just where the hell do you think you're going?" Sonja demanded. 

"Well, Mother dear, I'm not going to stay around and listen to this. I know 
you when you get wound up. I'm tired and I'm hungry." She crashed the lid 
down on the luggage and snapped the clasp. Then she pounded down the stairs, 
heading for the front door. 

"You can't leave. You're a minor." 

But Charlene was already out the door. "That's the funniest remark you've 
ever made, Mother," she shot back as she slipped into her car. 

Charlene was already in motion when Sonja screamed, "Come back! Charlene. I 
demand that you come back! Do you hear me? Come back!" 

Sonja, stark realization finally setting in, sank against the door jamb. 
"Oh, God, what have I done?" she gasped to herself between sobs. She 
remained in her stricken state for long minutes, and then made her way back 
into the house where she sank to the floor. 

Sonja had just regained her composure and was in the process of pulling 
herself together when the doorbell rang. 

She jumped to answer hoping, praying, it might be Charlene. 

"Hello, Mrs. uh Sonja." Young Tom quickly remembered that Charlene's mother 
always wanted her friends to call her by her first name. "Is Charlene here?" 

Sonja pulled Tom into the house and fell against his lanky frame in a new 
torrent of sobs. 

"Oh, Tom," she cried. "I just had a terrible fight with Charlene. It was my 
fault, I should've been more understanding. She's so young and has so much 
responsibility all of a sudden." 

Tom stood bewildered with this usually strong woman, now broken, clinging to 
him. 

"What happened?" he managed. 

But her sobs still overpowered her. She buried her face in the crook of his 
neck. Tom could feel her firm full breasts pressed against him and the 
heaves in her chest as the sobs continued. 

Tom felt awkward. He took her by the waist and tried to guide her. "Let's go 
sit down in the living room. Try to tell me all about it." 

Sonja allowed herself to be led to the couch, where she sank down on a green 
velvet cushion. 

"There you are," he soothed. "Try to calm down. Can I fix you a drink? Maybe 
that'll help." 

Sonja took a deep breath and in between gasps she nodded. 

Tom went to the portable bar. "What'll you have?" 

"I've been drinking martinis. But maybe that's the trouble. There's some 
brandy down there. A shot of brandy in a snifter glass that should help." 
Tom accommodated her. 

As he handed her the glass, Sonja seemed to recover somewhat. "Oh, Tom, fix 
something for yourself, too. Forgive me for being such a bad hostess." 

"Don't worry about me. I don't drink much. Just a beer now and then." Sonja 
jumped up. "I'll get you one from the fridge." 

"Oh, don't bother." But she was already out of the room. 

When she returned quite a few minutes later her hair was combed and her 
mascara no longer streaked. She was a different person tall, poised, her own 
mistress once more. 

Tom blinked. "You feel better?" 

"Much. Here." She handed him the beer. "I'm sorry I lost control, Tom." 

"Gosh, don't think anything of it. Happens to us all sometimes." 

She sat down on the couch close to him. "You're a nice boy, Tom," she said 
stroking him on the cheek. "I don't know what I would have done if you 
hadn't come along to comfort me." He blushed. "Gee, Sonja, I haven't done 
anything." 

"Just having you here, you're a nice, big, strong boy, is very comforting." 
She leaned her head against his chest. 

He awkwardly put his arm around her and patted her on the shoulder. 

"Oh, Tom, I don't know what I would have done without you," she cried. 
"Here, let me thank you in my own special way." With that, Sonja threw both 
arms around his neck and planted a passionate kiss on his mouth. 

He was surprised, but not too surprised to respond to her warm, full lips. 

She let her hand move from his waist on down to his jeans, where she 
casually brushed by the fatness at his crotch. When she found what he had 
there, she went back for a firmer touch. He flinched in embarrassment. "I 
made a mistake," she said softly, still caressing the bursting jeans. Tom 
gulped. "What d'you mean?" 

"You're not a boy. You're a man." 

This time Sonja allowed her hand to linger a bit more, though she knew 
better than to scare the young man away with too overt a move. Rather, she 
permitted her light fingers to trickle up and down the underside of his 
turgid penis, which was lying on his belly, pointed upward. 

"Oh, Mrs. I mean, Sonja. You shouldn't be doing that." 

"I know, Tom, I know. But it feels so big and nice, I can hardly help 
myself. You don't really mind, do you?" 

"But if anyone ever found out... " 

"Like who?" 

"Well, Charlene. She'd never talk to me again." 

"Don't mention her to me just now, Tom. I'm still furious with her. Besides, 
I'd have to be nuts to tell my own daughter that I fondled your prick for 
you." 

"What!" 

"Prick is what I said, Tom. Does that surprise you?" 

"Well, I guess not, now that I think about it... but I've never heard a 
woman say that before." Even as he uttered this last, Tom was relaxing his 
frame, allowing his body to slide down farther into the sofa. It was an 
involuntary act, and Tom's other reactions indicated he was still very 
apprehensive about the whole situation, though his apprehension was fast 
giving way to another response. His balls were beginning to feel liquidly 
hot and a trembling shudder shook his body. 

Sonja sensed that the time was correct for her next play. 

"Tom," she began, "is it all right if I ask you a personal question?" 

"I... suppose so," he stammered. 

"Well, this might seem like an odd thing to ask, since you're such a 
good-looking boy and since so many females must have already put the make on 
you, but, tell me, have you ever fucked a grown woman with this thing?" 

Tom didn't answer immediately, so Sonja went on, "Well, if that's too 
personal a question, let me ask this has it ever been sucked real good?" 

Again, Tom just looked at her, only half aware of the conversation his 
trembling penis on the verge of geysering. 

"No... " he replied, almost meekly. 

"Are you trying to tell me that you've never had the exquisite experience of 
shooting a good hot load into someone's mouth?" 

"Jesus... " 

"No girl, no woman... no man?" 

Again the boy could do nothing but stare, still very aware of the soft, 
tendrilly probes of Sonja's fingers. 

"Well, we'll have to do something about that right now, Tom," Sonja added, 
and without further toying reached down and unzipped the waiting fly. 

She gazed in awe at the large, firm protrusion. "I think it's wonderful the 
way you young men never wear underwear under your jeans." She began 
caressing the bare young manhood as she spoke. "Just nature's children ready 
for the natural act... " 

"Oh, Sonja," Tom gasped out in short breaths, "if you keep doing that... " 

"Oh, I'm going to do much more than that, dear Tom." She began tugging at 
his jeans until she got them down below his knees, then started to lean over 
to take his swelling into her mouth. She stopped short and looked up at him. 
"You're going to love this, Tom. I just hope I don't ruin you for others." 

Tom's eyes closed and he moaned deeply as Sonja's tongue flicked and licked 
and then swallowed up his entire penis. 

Neither of them heard the front door open. Charlene, after munching on a 
hamburger at a local drive-in, had begun to feel guilty about her peremptory 
behavior toward her mother. She knew that Sonja, once the rage was out of 
her system, would forget the whole incident and that life would then go on 
as before. Charlene had come back to make amends, but now she stood looking 
at her young boy friend entwined with her mother. She could not stifle an 
involuntary gasp. 

Tom and Sonja both looked up. 

"Baby... " Sonja started, obviously taken by surprise. 

"Don't you baby me!" Charlene snapped. "I came back because I felt so bad 
about leaving you all upset. 

Upset! Ha!" 

With that she stamped to the door. 

"Charlene, let me explain," Tom said, standing up. But he forgot his jeans 
were around his ankles and he tripped and fell when he tried to move toward 
her. The door slammed and they were alone again. 

"Don't worry about her. She'll get over it," Sonja said smoothly, by now 
recovered. She knelt on the floor beside Tom and took his penis in her hand, 
pumping it back and forth. "Youth is wonderful you hardly lost any 
firmness." Then, without further ceremony, she lifted her long hostess skirt 
and straddled the young boy who was still strapped on the floor, jeans 
constricting his ankles. 

"You're my prisoner until I choose to let you free," she cooed sexily in his 
ear. 

But she was wrong. She had momentarily forgotten that young men sometimes 
experience lack of control. So after she had pistoned up and down on his 
turgid manhood a few times, he suddenly gushed into her as if his penis were 
a giant syringe. 

But Sonja wasn't really very concerned, for he was young, and so was the 
evening. 

"How could she be so crass?" Charlene asked. She and Sid Morris were sitting 
in his private study, sipping liqueur. His wife had gone to bed earlier with 
a headache, so they knew they wouldn't be disturbed. 

"Now, don't be too harsh with your mother, Charlene. Remember, she's been 
sharing her boy friend with you, so she probably feels that turnabout's fair 
play." 

"It isn't that so much as how easily she's consoled. She was sobbing, almost 
hysterical then suddenly somebody puts a cock in her mouth and she's as 
happy as a baby with a pacifier." 

"Well, I guess that's about the size of it. But that's Sonja and you must 
learn to accept her as she is. However, it's going to be even more difficult 
for her to realize that you're a separate person too, and not just a carbon 
copy of her. She is going to have to learn and understand that her ambitions 
are not necessarily your ambitions. That's why she was so unhappy and 
ashamed about your leaving the party she had realized her ambition through 
you and then when you didn't allow her to bask in the limelight with you, 
she felt cheated." 

"Everything is so clear when you explain it to me, Daddy M.," Charlene said. 
"Maybe you ought to talk to Mom for me." 

"No. Sonja is more instinctive than mental. She'll realize these things and 
come to terms with herself better if we just let her work them out for 
herself." 

"Do you know what Mom's last brainstorm was two days before the picture 
started? She said my thirty-five-hundred-dollar sports car wouldn't be good 
enough for a successful star. I must turn it in as soon as possible for a 
super-German model with super-American payments. Honest to God, Daddy M., 
I'm sick of it. I'm not quite seventeen and already I'm working my ass off 
to meet payments. I panic to think what will happen if my contract isn't 
picked up, what with my present car and mink payments. I know what the next 
thing would be if I let her talk me into the car. Can you guess?" 

Mr. M. simply shook his head as he lit a cigar. He puffed and leaned back, 
listening. 

"I've already gotten hints of it. 'This isn't much of a house for a movie 
star,' she's said a million times. 

That's the soft sell." 

"Charlene, try to understand. Possessions the newer and more expensive the 
better are important to Sonja. She just wants you to have early what she had 
to wait for." 

"What I'd like is a little peace of mind. I love that house. I like my 
little car, and the way things turned out, I can afford it. But I need that 
full-length mink like I need another head. I do like up-to-date clothes of 
which I have plenty right now but that's not much of an extravagance. But 
what I'm getting at is this: is it all worth it? Accepting all the Hersheys 
and worse yet, the Rotheimers in order to have material possessions? It's 
such a vicious circle." 

"I've tried to tell you, baby, that you would have made it in any event. I 
tried to tell you that last night. It might have taken a little longer, but 
you'd have made it." 

"You mean, from now on I should tell Rotheimer to go f... no, suck himself 
off?" 

"Absolutely. I wouldn't put it quite like that, though." He put his cigar 
down in the large ashtray. "Come sit on my lap, baby." 

She smiled and did as he asked, but it was not really the same act as it 
would have been with the movie mogul. It was of her own free will that she 
sat on his lap. She even squirmed cooperatively as he put his hand up 
underneath her short skirt. Soon his finger found its way into her slippery 
slit. "Oh, Daddy M., that feels so good." 

"It sure does. Does baby want me to take her upstairs and tuck her in so she 
can tell Daddy a bedtime story?" 

"Oh, yes, let's go." 

"Tell me the one about the first time you sucked old Rotheimer off under the 
desk and the secretary came in for dictation," he said, as he led her up the 
stairs. 

 CHAPTER TWELVE 

"Cut! That's a print!" The sound stage was suddenly filled with applause. 
Once in a while rarely an actor gives such a fine performance in front of 
the camera that the other actors and crew watch in pure appreciation, and 
then, when the scene is finished they pay the actor or actress this type of 
special homage. For the actor no gift is greater. 

The young director, looking more like an out-of-work actor or hippie in his 
jeans and long hair, rushed onto the set and threw his arms around Charlene. 
"You were wonderful, my dear... a marvel!" 

Charlene, still somewhat dazed, smiled wanly as she realized the scene was 
over and that she really was Charlene, the actress, not Lydia the pathetic 
girl in the story. 

As the director wandered off to look at his script and block out the next 
scene, the make-up man rushed in to wipe away Charlene's tears and repair 
her make-up. He also offered special congratulations. 

"That's all right," the first assistant called to the make-up man. 
"Charlene's finished for the day. You were great, Charlene. Great," he said, 
walking up to her. "Sam'll give you your call for tomorrow." He turned and 
followed the director. 

Charlene looked at her watch. "Gee, it's like a present;only four o'clock." 

Sam, the second assistant, approached her just in time to hear her 
statement. "Don't get too excited," he said. "Mr. Rotheimer was here 
watching your scene and said to have you drop by his office when you were 
through. You were fantastic, Charlene." 

"Oh, sure. So great Mr. Rotheimer didn't say a word. Just left orders for me 
to drop by his office." 

Sam laughed abruptly. "Believe me, he was speechless. He was really moved. I 
know. I stood by his chair during the entire scene. Your call tomorrow is 
eight in make-up." 

"Gee, I'm practically getting a vacation," Charlene said, sauntering over to 
her dressing room. 

Her stand-in jumped up and followed her. "You were so great, Charlene. I 
just had to tell you. You made us all cry with you." 

"Why, thank you, Elaine," Charlene smiled. 

Charlene felt definitely on top of the world as she changed into her own 
clothes brushed blued denims and a white pullover sweater. Funny, she 
thought; with all her new, beautiful clothes, she usually just wore simple 
jeans or denims to work. Sort of a uniform. But then, why not? 

When she walked out of her dressing room, Miss Pearson, the welfare worker, 
was waiting for her. Sunshine had broken through her gray exterior. "You 
were just splendid, Charlene," she beamed. 

"Thank you very much, Miss Pearson. I appreciate your telling me." 

"Well, we're through quite early today, aren't we?" 

"Yes, but I have to drop by Mr. Rotheimer's office." And then like a stroke 
of purest genius, a diabolic thought came to Charlene. "Perhaps you'd like 
to accompany me. It's on your way out." 

"Oh, certainly. I'd be happy to." Miss Pearson apparently took her 
responsibilities seriously. 

Charlene looked Mr. Rotheimer's secretary directly even defiantly in the 
eye, forbidding her to even hint at familiarity. "I was told to drop by on 
my way out." 

"Oh, yes," Miss Stern answered. "I was on the set with Mr. Rotheimer when 
you did your big scene. Oh, you were thrilling. The whole studio is talking 
about it. He's waiting for you. Go right in." 

Charlene left the two women raving about her performance. She knocked on 
Rotheimer's door, as a form of courtesy, then walked in. 

For the first time since she had met him, Rotheimer stood to greet her. He 
stood and moved out from behind his grand desk and clasped her by the 
shoulders. "My dear," he kissed her on the forehead, "You were magnificent! 
You're a great actress a natural. Of course, I knew it the first day you 
walked in here. Instinct, you know." 

"Thank you, Mr. Rotheimer." She knew she was supposed to feel honored by the 
praise, the paternal kiss on the forehead, the walk to her around the desk. 
But what she really felt was a simple yet heady thing: power. 

It was exhilarating. She waited. 

"Come and sit down, my dear." He pulled the chair to the side of his desk, 
the position where Miss Stern usually took dictation. He helped her to her 
seat. Another first. 

He replaced himself in his own chair and continued, "Yes, I'm going to make 
you into a top star." Charlene was amused at how the informal "we" was 
replaced by the personal "I" in this instance. His eyes pierced into her. 
They were softened, as was his voice. "I've missed our little trysts, my 
dear." Charlene shuddered. She could hardly call her services trysts. 

When she didn't say anything, he tried again. "When I watched you do that 
scene, I really ached for you, Charlene." 

"I'm glad I was so convincing," she said. 

"Come here," he said, taking her by the hands and pulling her up in front of 
him. Charlene could barely conceal her smile. She stood before him. 

He undid her belt and pulled down her zipper and yanked her denims down. 
"Jesus, these things wrap you up better than a chastity belt," he remarked. 

Then he pulled her panties down and fingered her crotch. "You're nice and 
wet," he said. It was true. She was excited. It was not the way he thought 
but that excitement had made her wet, indeed. She was salivating with 
anticipation. 

He moved his finger back and forth, then grabbed his zipper and pulled it 
down. "Now!" he cried, fumbling for his hardened penis. "Now. Get down under 
the desk." 

"Gee, I can't today, Mr. Rotheimer. Miss Pearson, my welfare worker, is 
waiting out in the front office. I'm supposed to be on my way home." 

He exploded. "Welfare worker! What the hell is she doing here? Bad enough to 
have those pests on the sets." 

"She was just walking out with me. She likes to be certain that I'm all 
right and on my way home. I'm a minor, remember?" Charlene said "minor" with 
new meaning. 

Mr. Rotheimer stuffed himself back into his trousers and re-zipped. "Get 
your pants up. What're you waiting for? If she took it in her mind to burst 
in here... " He trailed off. He knew that it was unlikely, yet he didn't 
feel secure with "that woman" sitting out in the front office. 

Charlene casually put herself back together, then smiled sweetly. "Good 
afternoon, Mr. Rotheimer. Have a nice night." She sailed out the door in 
Queen Mary fashion. Not the boat, the queen. 

"Hi Mom!" Charlene called as she stepped into the hallway and closed the 
front door. 

"Oh, Charlene, baby." Sonja came running in from the kitchen and threw her 
arms around her offspring. "I have a nice dinner going. I'm so sorry, baby, 
about the last couple of nights. Guess I wasn't too much help to you, your 
first two days on the picture. But things are going to be different from now 
on." 

"Well, as they say, it takes two to tango, Mom. It's just as much my fault 
as yours." 

She held her mother back a second and scrutinized her short curly hair. "Did 
you have your hair cut and permed, Mom?" 

Sonja laughed. "No, this is just my housewifely wig. I auditioned for a 
commercial today. I've got to get back in gear. 'Fraid I let my own work 
slide a bit,that was part of the problem." 

"Did you get it?" 

"I'll, find out tomorrow. It's down to two of us." 

"Luck, Mom." Charlene kissed her mother on the nose. "I sure hope you get 
it." 

"Well, whether I do or not isn't the important thing. What is important is 
that I am looking after my own career. You are perfectly capable of looking 
after your own career. You're adult no matter what the state says. And you 
have a right to live your own life." 

"Did you talk to Mr. M. today?" 

"No, why?" 

"Oh, I just wondered. I spent the night at his house again." Charlene 
marveled at how right Daddy M. had been about Sonja. 

"I assumed you had, since you had the night before." 

"Yes." They walked into the kitchen and Charlene helped Sonja with some 
last-minute things for dinner. "He's told me I have a home there any time. 
What d'you think about that?" 

"I think that's just splendid," Sonja answered, adding a dazzling smile. 
"Keep me on my toes. After all, I'm not worried about you defecting to your 
father." 

"Hardly." Charlene paused, then said, "Mom, Mr. M. has asked me to call him 
Daddy M., says he loves me more than his own daughters. Did he ever say 
anything like that to you when you worked for him?" 

Sonja had a difficult time keeping her smile from bursting into a laugh. She 
knew only too well the charms of Sidney Morris. "No, baby, but then, I was 
closer to his own age, remember." 

"That's right." 

"Here, break up this lettuce. He's a nice man and a good friend to both of 
us. Outside of always having his home open to you, will you be seeing 
anything of him?" 

"Yes. We have a standing dinner date every Monday night his wife plays cards 
that night." 

"That's nice. I'm glad. You need a father figure in your life." 

"I fuck my father figure, Mother." 

Sonja looked up from the sauce she was preparing. "So? What else is new?" 

Charlene smiled. It was a great day. She was anxious to get Jon and her 
mother together at dinner and tell them her success story. "Where's Jon? 
Seems like I haven't seen him for days." 

"That's another thing I've reorganized around here. I told him I didn't mind 
if he couldn't do his part financially, provided he tried. I've never been 
lazy, so I sure as hell can't stand lazy men." 

Charlene was surprised that Sonja had laid the law down to Jon so adamantly. 
After all, he was a great lover. Then she recalled the scene the night 
before with Tom. Maybe she had replaced Jon with an even younger man. "How 
did he take it, Mom?" 

"Very well. In fact, I think he was relieved. You see, he's the kind who has 
to have a coach behind him giving him a push all the time, and I wasn't 
prepared to keep that up. He took off at nine full of bounce and smiles. 
Checked in at noon to say he had several things in the offing. He'll be here 
at six for dinner after all, we can't let him starve. And Charlene," She 
looked at her daughter with concern. "I've invited someone else for dinner." 

Charlene understood immediately. "Of course, Mother. I always love our small 
groups. Besides, it's my career, but it is your house. I don't want to 
forget that again." 

Sonja put her spoon down and went to her daughter. "No, Charlene, this is 
your house, too. Your home. And I want you to be comfortable and happy 
here." 

Charlene kissed her mother. "I am, Mom. What time is Tom coming?" 

"Six-thirty." 

Charlene broke into a delighted laugh. "Oh, good. Plenty of time to shower 
and change. Do you need me any more?" 

"No. I planned on doing everything myself. You're a hard-working actress. 
But it was fun fiddling around in the kitchen together." 

Charlene skipped on up the stairs, humming to herself. Tom, she thought. 
Well, if her mother had taught him as well as she had taught Charlene, Tom 
should soon be a helluva lover. Yes, the evening held a lot of promise. 

In fact, life held a lot of promise. 


THE END
