The Blackmailed Model
by Ward Michaels
(SB-256)


FOREWORD 

Fan magazines and biographies of film stars tell colorful, amazing tales of 
how major movie personalities come to be discovered. Some of these stories 
are straight out of the realm of fantasy, dreamed up by enterprising public 
relations people who know how to capture the publicity spotlight for their 
client. Others, some of the strangest sagas of all, are the truth. One 
popular star was discovered by a talent scout while she was having a soda at 
a corner drug store. One was seen by the right producer when she chanced to 
be a contestant on a daytime television quiz program. 

Pat Norwicki was an abandoned child, brought up in orphanages and crowded 
group homes, always starved for love. She had no assets and no one to watch 
out for her. What she did have, however, was a beautiful face with a 
fetching look of innocence about it. This, coupled with a superb, sensually 
attractive body, was all she really needed once she met Bartley Jonas, 
freelance photographer. Once the photos were taken, once they fell into the 
hands of the right man, a powerful and lecherous Hollywood producer, young 
Pat was skyrocketed to instant success. 

Only after she has been restructured by the studio experts, her past altered 
by skillful publicity people, her makeup designed by highly paid artists, 
and her wardrobe chosen for her by top Hollywood costumers, does she begin 
to realize that all the fame, all the glamour, and all the gold may not be 
worth the price. 

She enthusiastically explores the readily accessible world of mind altering 
drugs and wanton, uninhibited sexual excess, only to find real danger from 
an unexpected source, a source she feels it hopeless to combat. 

Pat's success brings with it immense vulnerability. As so many who have 
attained fame and fortune have discovered, she is an easy target for 
blackmail. What can she do? The answer to that question forms the climax of 
this terrifying novel of sex and sensuality. 

-The Publisher 


CHAPTER ONE 

"Patty. Patricia, dear. Come up to the front of the store, will you, dear?" 
Mrs. Fenston's voice came crackling over the intercom. In the storeroom of 
Fenston's Feminine Fashions, Pat Norwicki swore under her breath and tamped 
out her cigarette. This was supposed to be her break, but, of course, that 
did not matter to Mrs. Fenston. She was the boss, and she never let anyone 
forget it. One thing Pat had learned in the few months she had worked at 
Fenston's was that when Mrs. Fenston called she had better come running. 
Even more annoying than that was the fact that the woman insisted on calling 
her Patricia. She had hated the name from the time she was a child. 
Well-meaning society women would come to the orphanage to play with the 
children. Sooner or later, one of them would always pat her on the head and 
say, "And how is our little Patricia today?" She was not theirs, and she 
knew it as well as they did. When the end of the afternoon came, the women 
went home to their families and to their warm, fragrant kitchens. Pat stayed 
with the rest of the orphans in the cold, drafty building, the county 
orphanage. 

"Here I am, Mrs. Fenston," Pat said, hurrying to the front counter, an 
artificial smile on her lips. 

"Ah, yes, Patricia, please take care of this gentleman. He wants a gift for 
his wife, and you're just about her size." 

Pat knew the routine. She was supposed to hold the dresses, blouses, 
nightgowns up to her, giving the perplexed husband some idea of how his 
overblown wife might look in them. Chances are, the wife was about twice 
Pat's size, but Mrs. Fenston seemed to think it was good business to 
pretend, especially when it came to weight and clothing size. Often, the 
woman, flattered by her husband's buying her something too small for her, 
would bring it back to exchange. Then, in the clutches of Mrs. Fenston, she 
could be talked into something more expensive. 

This particular customer, a puffy faced, overweight man of about fifty, 
looked Pat up and down quickly, his baggy, hungry eyes much too obvious. 

"Can I help you?" she asked, as sweetly as she could. 

"Why, yes. Something in a robe, perhaps. It's my wife's birthday." 

"I'm sure we have something suitable. Follow me, please." 

As they walked toward the back of the store, Pat could feel the man's eyes 
burning into her back. She did not trust him. 

"Here," she said, taking a long, flowing robe with a high collar from the 
rack. "How is this?" 

"Might be all right. Could you hold it up to you? I want to see how it'll 
look on. That's the way. Nice." He stepped forward until he was standing 
very near her. He reached out and put a hand to her waist. Pat stepped away 
expertly. 

"Perhaps something in a lighter color," she said cheerfully, taking down a 
light pink, see through gown. "Would your little wife like this one?" 

"I don't know," the man mumbled, obviously ignoring her reference. "Why 
don't you go slip into it, so I can tell better." 

"Sorry, Sir, I can't do that. I'm on duty." Pat reached for another gown, 
her back to the customer. She heard him step forward and felt his hot breath 
on the back of her neck. 

"What time do you get off?" he whispered. "Maybe you can wear it for me 
then. I'll buy it for you if you do." Pat felt her stomach flip. The idea of 
being nearly nude in front of this paunchy, lecherous male was disgusting. 
"Look," she said, turning on him suddenly, "maybe you better get somebody 
else to wait on you. I really don't think I can help you." Her eyes blazed 
with anger. 

The man backed off at once. "Now, now, don't get upset. I was just kidding. 
You understand. I'll take that nightgown you're holding and the robe too. 
Just pack them up for me." A line of perspiration shown on his forehead. He 
was agitated and looked like he wanted nothing more than to get out of the 
store as quickly as he could. 

Pat smiled at him triumphantly. "Of course, Sir. I'll have it ready in a 
minute, Sir." Picking up the two garments, she took them to the front 
counter, the customer following meekly behind. 

After she had rung up the large sale and handed the man his packages, Pat 
drifted back to the storeroom. She had just earned herself a nice, fat 
commission, and there was nothing wrong with that. God knew she needed it, 
she thought resentfully. The tiny weekly salary Mrs. Fenston paid her was 
surely not enough to make ends meet. It hardly paid for her room at the 
boardinghouse, bought food, and took care of a few other necessities. 
Commissions helped, but not much. 

Closing the storeroom door behind her, Pat sat down on the edge of a packing 
case and lighted another cigarette, determined to finish her interrupted 
break. The problem of finances was always with her. Granted, she was only 
eighteen, but there were plenty of expenses. Her friends were off at college 
or working at decent jobs, not clerking in some two bit local store. They 
had brains, ambition, connections. All she had was better than average looks 
and a good body. There must be a better way to use her assets than caging an 
occasional commission out of some fat, middle age man who could not resist 
the temptation of her slim waist and her superbly pointed breasts. She 
puffed at her cigarette and daydreamed about what it would be like to have a 
better paying job. 

"Patricia!" Again Mrs. Fenston's syrupy voice came over the intercom. 

With a sigh, Pat squashed her half smoked cigarette, smoothed her skirt over 
her trim thighs, and headed back for the front of the store. Waiting for her 
was another customer. About thirty, he was certainly a cut above the usual 
clientele. Tall and slim with a flashing smile, he was strikingly dressed in 
a camel hair color sweater that looked to Pat like cashmere, tight jeans 
made out of something that appeared to be buckskin suede, and soft, Italian 
loafers that had to be custom made. A silk scarf was knotted casually around 
his neck. Whoever the man was, he was a success. Appraising Pat with 
shining, light blue eyes, he gave her a slow, confident smile. 

"May I help you please?" Pat asked, feeling suddenly nervous. There was 
something exciting in the way the good looking man stared at her. 

"I hope so," he replied, his voice low and caressing. Pat felt gooseflesh go 
up her slim, smooth arms. "Something for your wife?" The man threw back his 
head and laughed lightheartedly. "No. No wife. I'm in kind of a bind. 
There's a certain color parasol I need, and I need it in a hurry." 

"What color is that?" Pat wondered what on earth the man could want with a 
woman's umbrella. 

"A bright orange, and it has to be semitransparent, sort of like organtly. 
Do you know what I mean?" 

"Yes, I think so, but we carry nothing like that." 

The man's face fell. "But I have to have it by this afternoon." Pat 
hesitated a moment, thinking. Then she said, "Maybe we can order it for you. 
Hestle's, one of the big fashion houses we deal with, carries a lot of 
specialty items like that. They're scheduled to make a delivery here this 
afternoon. Maybe we could call and have them send one along." 

His face lit up. "That'd be terrific. I'd be ever grateful." 

"Come with me. We'll have to go back to the storeroom and see if they carry 
parasols in their catalog." 

"Where are you going, Patricia, dear?" Mrs. Fenston asked. 

"To show this gentleman the Hestle's catalog. We'll be right back." She saw 
her employer's carefully plucked brow shoot up quizzically. 

The stranger followed Pat to the back. 

As soon as they were out of sight of the owner, he put his cool hand on 
Pat's shoulder. "I'm sorry to be so much bother to you," he whispered, his 
face very near her ear. 

"No bother at all," Pat answered, making no move to get away. There was 
something about this man's touch that was different from the others. It felt 
good. It excited her. "Good," the man answered, pressing his fingertips into 
her shoulder. She could feel the caressing warmth of his breath on her cheek 
as he spoke, and she started to simmer inside. A shiver of arousal ran 
through her. Feeling touched by him was so good. 

Pat stopped at the door of the storeroom and pushed it open. She stepped 
inside, the customer behind her, and looked around for the catalog. The man 
moved his steady hand slowly to the center of her narrow back. She gave 
another shiver. He moved up to massage the smooth, down covered skin at the 
back of her neck, touching it very lightly with just the tips of his 
fingers. 

It was as if Pat were in a trance. She was not sure how she should react. 
She had never felt just like this before. All the other men who had touched 
her pawed at her demandingly, using her good looks and attractive body for 
their own lust. This man's cool hand seemed to worship her, soothe her, tell 
her it was going to be all right. She tried to think. She was eighteen. 
There was no reason for her to feel flustered. She should tell him to leave 
her alone, the way she did the other male customers who tried to put their 
hands on her. What really bothered her was that she did not want him to 
leave her alone. She was not sure exactly what she wanted. All she knew was 
she liked having him touch her. 

"There's the catalog. Over there on the table," she said, pulling herself 
out of her reverie. Leaving the man, she walked over to the table and picked 
up the book. The customer came over to her, a sly smile wreathing his 
handsome mouth. As Pat opened to the page with the umbrellas, he put his 
fingers to the back of her neck again, this time running them down her 
deeply indented backbone. He stood very close to her, and Pat could feel the 
manly heat of his body. Again she shivered with excitement. Her whole body 
was responding to him now, and she could feel the familiar tingling in her 
loins, just the way it did whenever she caressed the area with her trembling 
fingers. She swallowed hard, trying to keep her mind on the catalog. 

"Is this the kind of thing you had in mind?" she asked, her voice agitated. 
She pointed to a photo of a frilly parasol and tried to keep her finger from 
shaking. "That looks perfect!" His hand had not left Pat's quivering body. 
It was now at her waist, the fingers tickling casually at the sensitive base 
of her spine. She could feel the lightning nerves telegraphing his touch 
down through her firm, rounded buttocks and right into the depths of her 
moist, dark vagina. 

"If I have Mrs. Fenston call for it now, it will be here this afternoon. If 
you'll step to the front with me, we'll ask her to take care of it." Pat 
made the statement with regret. It meant this exciting, completely private 
moment was over. 

They went back to the front of the store, and Pat showed her employer the 
catalog. In her usual officious manner, Mrs. Fenston placed the call. Yes, 
they had the parasols in stock, and, yes, there was an orange one. 

"It will be on the truck this afternoon. We will have it for you by four." 

"Terrific!" the man replied, "but I'm not going to be able to come get it, 
I'm afraid. I have appointments all afternoon." His blue eyes looked 
worried. 

"My, that is a shame," Mrs. Fenston said. Pat could tell the woman was 
afraid she might lose the sale. "Do you deliver, by any chance?" asked the 
suave man hopefully. "Not usually, but, perhaps, if Patricia would not mind 
dropping it by to you on her way home, we might be able to do it." 

The customer looked at Pat pleadingly. "If you could do it for me, I'll make 
it worth your while. I'm desperate. Besides, it's only a couple of blocks 
away." 

Wondering what he meant by making it worth her while, Pat answered, "Yes, I 
guess I could bring it." 

"You may leave a few minutes early to do it, dear," Mrs. Fenston said, her 
voice sugary. "Wonderful," the man said, his eyes sparkling. "Here's my 
card. The address and phone number are on it. Thank you so much for helping 
me out. I have to get back now. See you this afternoon." Flashing Pat a 
white toothed smile that made her warm all over, he left the store. 

BARTLEY JONAS, the card said. PHOTOGRAPHER. According to the address, the 
man had been right. His studio was only two blocks north of Fenston's. Pat 
worked impatiently through the rest of the morning, her thoughts continually 
going back to the handsome photographer and the way his caressing hands had 
felt. Perhaps, when she reached his studio ... But that was silly. He had 
simply been nice to a shop girl, nothing more. 

When her lunch break came, she was not hungry. For some reason, her stomach 
was upset, nervously excited. Instead of eating, she decided to go for a 
walk. Needless to say, she had to get out of the store. Otherwise, Mrs. 
Fenston would keep calling on her to wait on trade, the way she always did 
when Pat was on her break. 

Before she knew it, Pat was heading north. In a few minutes, she stood 
before a white door with a sign saying, BARTLEY JONAS. ONE FLIGHT UP. Well, 
she thought, at least he was telling the truth. But there was no reason to 
suspect that he would not be doing that, was there? This whole thing 
confused her, especially her reaction to it. All Jonas had r done was run 
his hands over her neck and back. The way she was acting, it was almost as 
though he tried to make love to her. She found herself wishing he would do 
just that. What would it be like, she wondered. The man was so 
sophisticated, so unlike any of the boys at school, the ones who were always 
trying to corner her beside her locker. 

Whatever happened, Pat knew that she was very drawn to the well dressed, 
blue eyed photographer. There was an exciting gentleness about him, and, 
yet, at the same time, a sense of command. She had the feeling Bartley Jonas 
nearly always got what he wanted. 

Back at the store, she could not keep her eyes from the clock. What if the 
delivery truck from Hestle's did not come? What if they did not have the 
orange umbrella after all? Even after the truck had arrived, and with it the 
parasol, Pat felt nervous. She put the parasol right in the center of the 
table in the store room, where she could look at it every time she went back 
there for something. It was beautiful, all frilly and elegant, a symbol from 
a world very different from the one she had known all her life. 

It seemed that five o'clock would never come. Finally, at four, Mrs. Fenston 
said, "Patricia, remember to make that delivery. You may leave at four 
forty-five to do it if you like." 

Big deal, Pat thought, fifteen minutes early. "Thank you, Ma'am," she said. 
She hurried the two blocks north, fidgeting impatiently at the stop lights, 
the umbrella clutched tightly under her arm. At last she reached the 
downstairs door of the studio. Looking at the name on the door, she was 
suddenly frozen. What was wrong with her? Granted, she did not usually make 
deliveries, but there was no reason for that to make her so nervous. Here 
she was, standing on the pavement, her heart pounding so frantically she 
could hardly hear the traffic. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the 
door and mounted the long flight of steps to the second floor. 

The door of Bartley Jonas' outer office was ajar. Peeking inside, Pat knew 
she was in the right place. Low tables and white ottomans were placed around 
the stark white walls, and framed photographs covered them. 

Timidly, the teenager pushed the door open and walked into the empty office. 
She was not sure what she should do next. She clutched the furled umbrella 
and looked around the room. Some of the photos seemed familiar. There was 
one of a beautiful, blonde woman in a revealing [ evening gown that she knew 
she had seen in an ad for a major department store. Another, of a healthy 
looking girl with short, brown hair, was from a promotion for sports 
equipment. She held a tennis racket and smiled at the camera as though it 
were the most wonderful present she had ever received. 

Pat could hear voices. They came from the half open door directly opposite 
the one through which she had entered. Stepping over closer to it, she 
listened carefully. Perhaps Bartley Jonas was busy with a client. Maybe she 
should just put the umbrella down and leave quietly. Her heart sank. She did 
not want to do that. Instead, she listened. 

"Roll over toward me a little more, Babe. That's the way. Oh, yeah, they 
catch the light now. Beautiful. Arch your back a bit. Make 'em look big. 
That's what they like. Good. Aw, Christ, Baby, you've got some body!" r Pat 
could hardly believe her ears. What was going on in there, anyway? The 
voice, which she was sure belonged to Bartley Jonas, seemed excited, 
aroused. What was he talking about? She knew what it sounded like, but could 
that really be it? She should turn and run out of here as fast as her legs 
would take her. She should. She should. 

Hardly letting herself think about what she was doing, Pat pushed open the 
door and looked into the studio. 

 CHAPTER TWO 

"Hi," the photographer said, looking up from his camera and smiling at Pat. 
"I see you brought the umbrella. You're right on time. I was getting ready 
to use it. Wait outside a minute, and I'll be right with you." 

"Let her come on in, Bar," said a woman's voice. Pat looked in the direction 
it had come from. There, lying in a large, rope hammock, was one of the most 
beautiful women she had ever seen, and she was totally naked. Pat caught her 
breath, her eyes wide. 

"Weren't you the one who objected to visitors when you were working?" 
Bartley Jonas asked, a tinge of humor in his voice. 

The model stretched languidly. "Sometimes, Bart, but not right now." Her 
dark brown eyes were on the girl in the doorway. 

Smiling at Pat, Bartley Jonas shrugged his shoulders. "I guess it's okay for 
you to come in. My mistake." Hesitantly, Pat entered the room. She tried to 
keep her eyes away from the superbly built woman in the hammock, but it was 
very difficult. As she tried not to watch the model, the woman did 
everything she could think of to get her to look at her. She stretched and 
posed and ran her long, slim fingers up and down her shapely, tapered legs 
as if she were making love to her own gorgeous body. 

"Where do you want me to put the parasol?" Pat asked, her voice sounding 
like it belonged to someone else. 

"Just throw it over there in the corner, on top of the file cabinet. You can 
sit down and watch if you like. I'll be with you in a little while." 

Pat wondered what he meant by that. Perhaps he intended to tip her for 
bringing the umbrella over as promised. She put the parasol on top of the 
four drawer file and sat down on a low stool, well out of range of the 
camera but positioned so that she could watch the model in the hammock. The 
woman was perfect in every way. Her long, dark hair shimmered in the studio 
lights. It was fluffy, healthy looking, and it cascaded to her smooth 
shoulders, half covering them like a sable wrap. Her face was punctuated by 
high cheekbones and heavy, carefully plucked eyebrows. Her eyes were huge 
and dark brown, and her lashes were very long and black. Her whole being 
radiated health. She smiled at Pat, and her teeth were so straight, white, 
and clean that they took the girl's breath away. 

The model's body matched her face. Her skin was so smooth it looked like 
velvet. She was tall and willowy, slim without being the least bit bony. Her 
slimness made her rounded breasts look even larger than they actually were. 
Curved like beautiful, ripe melons, they stood up proudly on the woman's 
chest, and Pat caught herself longing to touch them, to run her fingers over 
their exquisite softness, to find out if they were as real as they looked. 

How silly, she thought to herself. Why would such an idea even enter her 
mind? It was perverted, or at least people said it was. Somehow, seeing the 
woman's beautiful, boldly displayed body, the urge did not seem perverted in 
the last. Wanting to touch her seemed a very natural thing. 

The woman's breasts were crowned by huge, perfectly round nipples, pinkish 
brown in color, their erect tips crinkly and large. Her waist was thin, 
almost small enough for someone to join their fingers around it, and her 
navel was so large and indented so deeply that it looked as if a person 
could get lost in it. Her hips flared lushly, soft and enticing. Again, Pat 
found herself wanting to run her cool palms over their smooth flesh, 
exploring every inch of it, perhaps causing the model to writhe with 
pleasure. 

Even though it disturbed her to admit it, what really held Pat's attention 
was the vee of fleecy curls at the woman's groin. The hair was coal black 
and very shiny. She caught herself wishing the woman would spread her legs a 
little so she could get a glimpse of what the patch of lush fur was hiding. 
Was it as warm and secret, as fragrantly moist as her own long slit? Did she 
touch it at night, running her fingertips over its sensitive lips the way 
Pat did? Did others do that to her, men like Bartley Jonas? 

The model's long legs had a shapely taper to them. Her knees were smooth 
skinned and dainty looking. Her calves swelled slightly and then narrowed to 
trim, well formed ankles and narrow feet. The long, well articulated toes 
looked to Pat as though they would be good enough to eat. 

Horrified at herself, Pat wondered what ever gave her such a lewd, wicked 
thought. The dark model's body glimmered in the intense light of the studio. 
She had apparently been oiled with something to make her skin glow. The 
effect was exciting. Pat could not see enough. She would go on watching this 
forever if they let her. 

"Okay, Babe," Bartley said. "Let's have you roll over onto your stomach 
now." 

"Aw, come on. Have a heart. I was getting comfortable just like this. 
Besides, I don't think the kid's done cruising my tits yet." 

Pat felt her cheeks burning. "Maybe I should leave now," she said quietly, 
getting up from the stool. 

"Stay right where you are. Don't let Charlene get to you. She's got the 
filthiest mouth in the business." 

"Why, thank you, Bart," the woman cooed. "I take that as a compliment." 

"Shut up and turn over on your belly like I told you." 

Sighing, the beautiful model turned over in the rope hammock. "Christ, it 
seems like everybody wants me on my belly nowadays." 

"And you're only too happy to oblige. I know that from experience." 

Charlene laughed. "You've got the photographs to prove it too, don't you? 
How's this?" Pat had no idea what they were talking about, but she did not 
take time to think about it. She was much too busy watching what was going 
on in the hammock. Charlene, her smooth, softly rounded buttocks in the air, 
jiggled them enticingly, flexing and loosening the muscles. 

"Get the shots made, and let's get this over with," Charlene snapped. "These 
goddamn ropes are cutting right into my cunt." 

"What of it? I thought you were into bondage. There is one problem, though." 

"What's that?" 

"I'm not getting enough shine from your back." 

"Aw, shit, hurry it up, will you. I haven't got all night." 

Bartley turned to Pat. "I'm sorry to have to ask this, but will you give us 
a hand?" 

"Sure. I'd be glad to." As she got up, she realized there was fresh moisture 
between her thighs. She was overwhelmingly aroused just from watching the 
model move about in the hammock. How strange, she thought. 

"There's a bottle of baby oil over on the table. Would you rub some on 
Charlene's back?" The blood pounding in her temples, Pat walked to the table 
and picked up the bottle of baby oil. As she unscrewed the cap, it slipped 
from her fingers and went skittering across the floor. 

"It's okay, Baby, don't be nervous," Charlene called. "It's just like 
smearing oil on anybody. Pretend I'm your boyfriend. I won't mind that at 
all." 

"Shut up, Charlene," Bartley said, chuckling. Her body trembling, Pat 
approached the hammock. She poured a little of the clear oil into the palm 
of her hand and stood looking down at the woman's smooth, bronzed back. 

"Go ahead," the photographer said. "Spread some of it on her lower back." 
Pat moved as though she were in a daze. Slowly, watching her hands as if 
they belonged to somebody else, she spread the oil. Charlene's flesh was 
very warm and unbelievably smooth, just as Pat had known it would be. She 
felt it quiver excitedly as her hands moved over its surface. 

"Ouuuuuuu, that tickles," Charlene said, giggling and squirming about. 

"That looks good," Bartley said, squinting into the camera. "Now get some on 
her cheeks." Pat was ready to move to the woman's face when it dawned on her 
what the photographer was talking about. She hesitated for a quick moment 
and then decided to go ahead. All of this was so strange to her. Why not 
make the most of the experience? 

Pouring more of the oil onto her hands, she focused her attention on the 
silken buttocks. Just then, the telephone in the outer office rang. 

"Be back in a minute," Bartley called as he sprinted from the studio. Pat 
stood above the hammock, frozen with fear, her eyes still riveted to the 
light brown buttocks. There was an exciting tuft of dark hair at the top of 
the model's long, sensitive crevice, and it reminded Pat of the bush she had 
seen surrounding the woman's genitals. She surveyed the dark, moist looking 
crack wondering what it might be like to run the tips of her fingers along 
it, perhaps to actually touch the convolutions of the tiny, super sensitive 
opening of the woman's anus. What would Charlene say if she did something 
like that? It might shut her smart mouth for her. 

"Come on, Kid. What'cha waiting for, Christmas?" Stretching languidly in the 
hammock, the model looked like a sleek skinned, lithely muscular panther. 

"Nothing, Miss. Nothing at all." 

"Listen to you! Miss, she says. You'd make some man a good slave. Have you 
ever been into that? It's exciting, once you get used to it." She wriggled 
her buttocks enticingly. Pat moved her hands over the woman's flesh, hardly 
taking time to feel the tingly smoothness of the tanned skin. She did not 
dare let herself do that. It was too exciting. Anger welled up within her 
suddenly. The model had been treating her sarcastically ever since the 
moment she came in. She may not be very sophisticated, but she did not 
deserve that. She began pinching and pummeling the woman's spongy buttocks, 
kneading the oil into them mercilessly. 

Instead of acting as though this treatment hurt, Charlene raised her bottom 
higher, eager for more. Soft, low groans came from her straining throat, and 
she squirmed about salaciously. At last, Pat pulled back. 

"Did you get some down in my crack?" Charlene asked. 

"What?" Pat asked, unable to believe her ears. 

"You have to get some of the oil down between my ass cheeks. It gives that 
extra glow to the photos." 

"Oh, yeah, sure," Pat said. Could she do it? Was she capable of reaching 
down into the dark warmth of the woman's pulsating cleft. Her heart pounded 
so loudly she could scarcely think. 

"Go ahead," Charlene said coaxingly. "It's clean. I always make sure of 
that. You never know who might want to use it." The model chuckled coarsely 
at her lewd joke. Again, Pat felt anger. She did not understand this humor, 
and she resented that. There was something else, too, a sense of excitement 
she had never known before. With quivering fingers, she began spreading the 
oil, starting at the top of the dark crack and moving down, traveling along 
the length of the deep, hairless cleft. 

Charlene cooed happily and again lifted her buttocks, opening and exposing 
the tenderest part of her body to the girl's touch. Pat could hear Bartley 
Jonas still talking on the telephone. For the time being, at least, she and 
Charlene were alone. She could do whatever she liked, and no one but the two 
of them would ever know. Gasping at her own boldness, she let her hand probe 
lower and deeper. Suddenly, she felt it. She was touching the model's 
tightly constricted anal opening. With a tiny groan, Charlene spread her 
legs as wide as she could, inviting Pat to explore further. The teenager's 
fingers moved as if they had a mind of their own. She held her breath 
excitedly while they moved back and forth over the woman's tiny anus. 

"Hmmmmmmmm, that feels soooo-ooooo good!" Charlene whispered, her voice rife 
with passion. She writhed from side to side in the hammock, lifting her body 
to invite the girl onward. 

Pat could not take her fingers away. She could not catch her breath. She 
could not think. She could not even move, except for her ever exploring 
fingertips. They stretched and pulled at the burning hot, rubbery feeling 
entrance to the woman's body, and Pat could see the opening twitching with 
passion. She pushed into it slightly, and Charlene let out a passion-edged 
groan, a sheen of perspiration breaking out on her lithe, excited body. 

"Aw, shit, that feels soooooooooo good. Dig your fingers in a little bit 
more. Use your nails. Oh, yeeeeeeeeah! I love it. I love it so much!" 

As though she were hypnotized, Pat moved her trembling fingers forward. The 
smooth, warm moistness of the woman's rectal opening was overwhelming. This 
was the most exciting thing she had ever done in her whole life. Nothing 
could stop her. She was like a different person. Her fingers probed and 
pushed in deeper. The beautiful model wriggled beneath her touch, soft cries 
of passion issuing from her full, partly open lips. Pat was in control. She 
had total power over this gorgeous, spectacularly beautiful creature. For 
the first time in her life, she was calling all the shots. Her very touch 
brought deep, sensual pleasure. Charlene would do anything she asked her to 
do at this moment, anything. 

Bartley hurried back into the room. 

"Sorry to be so long on the phone," he called out. Then he stopped, struck 
by the scene before him. Pat drew back, suddenly filled with guilt. She 
glanced down at her slim fingers, half expecting to find them streaked with 
brown. They were only oily. She was shaking all over, and she felt faint. 

"Well," the photographer said, chuckling, "I see you girls have been getting 
acquainted." 

"We were doing fine until you interrupted us, you prick!" Charlene snarled. 

"No reason to let me stop you. I've seen everything there is to see and 
taken pictures of most of it. That gives me an idea. How'd you two like to 
make some extra money?" 

"Doing dyke shots, you mean?" Charlene asked. 

"Right. I got a client, a big movie producer, who's dying for some. He keeps 
after me all the time to sell him as many as I can get my hands on." 

Charlene stretched lazily. "It's fine with me. You know that. I don't know 
about the kid here, though. She seems kind of skittish." Pat wanted to pinch 
herself. This was all some sort of strange dream. Could they actually be 
proposing what she thought they were? Did they really want to take pictures 
of Charlene and her doing things to each other. She was not even certain 
what lesbian women did. She had some idea, of course. There was no way a 
girl could grow up in a series of orphanages and foster homes and not know 
something about what sometimes went on between women. She just never let 
herself think about it, that was all. Now she remembered all those nights in 
the foster homes, sharing a saggy single bed with some other girl about her 
own age. She would awaken in the middle of the night to find her warm pussy 
throbbing with life, the other girl's backside pressing hard against hers. 
Maybe she could respond sexually to another woman. She would never know if 
she did not allow herself to try. 

"What do you say, Patricia?" Bartley Jonas asked, remembering the name Mrs. 
Fenston had called her by back at the store. 

"Why not?" she answered boldly, "And my name is Pat." 

 CHAPTER THREE 

"Take your clothes off, and let's have a look at you," Bartley said. 

"Right here, in front of both of you?" Pat asked, suddenly afraid again. 

"Of course. We don't bite. I take that back. Charlene bites sometimes. Don't 
you, Honey?" 

"Only if they seem to like it. Look, Pat, I'm already naked, and you don't 
see me getting embarrassed about you looking at me, do you?" 

"No, I guess not," Pat answered. There was a lot more the woman did not seem 
to get embarrassed about either, she thought to herself. 

"Then go ahead and strip." Trembling still, but knowing she wanted to do it, 
Pat kicked off her sandals. Her fingers caught at the hem of her short 
sleeved sweater, and she pulled it slowly upward, revealing her concave 
stomach and clearly defined ribcage. Both the photographer and his model let 
out a gasp as her exquisitely shaped, sharply pointed breasts came into 
view. While not huge in size, they were large for one as slim as she, and 
they stood out proudly with no hint of a sag. The reddish pink nipples 
covered the ends of them, and they were already enticingly erect with 
excitement. Pat pulled the sweater off over her head and threw it aside. She 
tossed her dark hair, letting it flow over her back and shoulders. 

"Beautiful" Charlene whispered, her tone filled with admiration and lust. 
With trembling fingers but with more confidence than ever before in her 
life, Pat opened the zipper of her skirt. Through the slits of her half 
closed eyes, she watched the two people who were staring at her. They were 
obviously enthralled with her. Bartley Jonas licked his lips salaciously. 
The evidence of his arousal was clearly outlined in the leg of his suede 
pants, and it looked long and incredibly thick. It was all that way because 
of her Pat thought. She saw Charlene's long, slim fingers go instinctively 
to her loins. The beautiful woman splayed her legs wide, and the tips of her 
fingers played along the already swollen lips of her pussy. For the first 
time, Pat caught a glimpse of it. The pink folds of it looked soft and 
moist, folding in on one another again and again. She could hardly believe 
anything could be so inviting. Her mouth was watering. She wanted it. There 
was no longer any doubt in her mint. When she and the model got close to one 
another this time, she would do a lot more than run her fingers into 
Charlene's trembling anus. Wantonly, she pushed her skirt down over her 
softly flaring hips. It fell into a pool at her feet, and she stepped out of 
it. Now she wore nothing but her tiniest bikini underpants. She stretched 
her slim arms high above her head, then rotated her hips lewdly, 
entertaining them, showing them how aroused she was, how ready for whatever 
was to come next. 

Bartley let out a low whistle. His hand was rubbing his crotch now, tracing 
the length of his leather covered penis, his breathing so heavy it seemed to 
fill the room with its sounds. 

"Hurry up, Baby," Charlene moaned. "Get those little panties off and come 
over here before I come just from watching you." Smiling at them 
lasciviously, Pat hooked the tips of her fingers under the elastic band of 
her panties. Slowly, twisting her hips from side to side, she pushed her 
bikini downward, over the smooth skin of her silky thigh, on down to her 
knees until the pants fell to her trim ankles. She stood looking at the two 
people, her supple, young body completely revealed. She was wonderfully slim 
and lithe, her body hairless except for the sparse patch of dark fuzz in the 
vee of her crotch. Through it, her moistly pouting cunt lips were clearly 
visible. Beads of musky wetness studded them, revealing the extent of her 
excited arousal. 

"God," Bartley whispered, "You're so fresh, so exciting. I just can't 
believe it. Come over here to Charlene. I've got to get all the photos I can 
of you." Without even waiting for Pat to move, he began clicking pictures. 
With the grace of a young cat, she moved across the room to the hammock. 

Lying in the hammock, Charlene raised her arms to the girl, and Pat knew 
instinctively how to begin. She leaned down and kissed the woman, planting 
her full, warm lips directly on Charlene's. The model responded at once, 
sensuously, wholeheartedly. Her mouth squirmed against Pat's lips, and Pat 
reached down to wrap her arms around the woman's supple body. They clung to 
each other, letting out small, mewling cries as the camera continued to 
click away. 

Charlene let her cool palms roam up and down Pat's bare back, feeling out 
the youthful muscles, every movement opening up new zones of excitement for 
the girl. With her thick, wet tongue, she pushed against Pat's quivering 
lips. The girl let her mouth open a little, and Charlene delved into it, 
tasting the utter sweetness of Pat's spittle, sucking it into her own mouth, 
rolling her tongue around inside the girl's willing, excited body. 

Pat lifted her tongue to respond, tickling gently at the underside of the 
woman's wildly probing organ. This seemed so right, so completely 
satisfying. How could she have missed it for so long? There had been plenty 
of chances, she could see now. It would have been so easy at the orphanage, 
in the group homes. The counselors and foster parents watched like hawks, 
but always to make sure the boys and girls did not get together. It would 
have been so simple to do what she was doing now with the other girls. They 
were as close as the same bed, and she had never really suspected the 
possibilities. A memory suddenly welled up within her. She had been staying 
at a group home. There were eight girls there, and it was crowded. One night 
she was awakened with an overwhelming urge to urinate. On tiptoe so as not 
to disturb anyone, she flipped down the hall to the bathroom. Pushing open 
the doors, she saw two of the older girls, skinny, underfed children of the 
streets. They were kissing, running their hands over one another's nude 
bodies, just as she and Charlene were doing now. 

"Get out of here," one of them, a peaked faced blond, snarled at her. "Go 
back to your bed and leave us alone." The next morning, Pat was punished for 
wetting the bed. The picture of the two girls was so clearly burned into her 
mind that the whole thing could have happened the night before. Yet, until 
this moment, she had never let herself really understand what it was they 
were doing. 

Pat pulled Charlene closer, kneeling down beside the hammock. Their firm, 
silky smooth breasts rubbed against each other, and they both gasped as 
fresh jolts of raw passion rushed through their bodies. They kissed and 
kissed, never breaking the loving hold even to breathe. All the time the 
camera clicked in the background. 

"Get into the hammock with Charlene," Bartley ordered, his voice tight with 
passion. Her every movement a symphony of open sexuality, Pat lay down in 
the hammock, stretching her body out against that of the model. The ropes 
bit into her flesh and made her feel even more acutely alive, more open to 
new sensations. She felt ready for anything, everything. She pushed her hot, 
perspiring body against Charlene and felt herself sliding against the oil. 
She touched the woman's breasts, and Charlene arched her back enticingly, 
inviting her on. 

The photographer moved about, catching the two of them from every possible 
angle, and they began to move together, sliding against one another, kissing 
again, their mouths opening hungrily to devour hotly squirming tongues. 

Suddenly, Charlene's hand was moving. It ran slowly, sensuously down Pat's 
squirming body, finding all the secret places, lingering over her firm, 
rubbery breasts to pinch at her already erect nipples. Pat groaned deep in 
her throat, the animal sound of it surprising her. 

The hand continued, smoothing over the supple flesh of her concave belly, 
making her whole body tremble hotly. Then, suddenly darting quickly, the 
hand moved directly to the plump little cleft of Pat's pussy. She gasped, 
the tingling in her cunt reaching a new pitch. Charlene began to buff the 
quivering mound lightly with her palm, feeling the moist drops oozing from 
the tightness of Pat's crack. The whole area was sizzling hot, ready for 
action. Pat sobbed and wept with lewd excitement. 

Charlene moved expertly, getting out of the swinging hammock. She knew 
exactly what she wanted to do. More than that, she knew Pat was now so 
aroused she would go along with it. "Roll over," she ordered, her voice 
rough and-edged with passion. 

Immediately, Pat did as she was told. She turned herself in the hammock, her 
pert, rounded buttocks in the air. Again, the ropes gnawed at her youthful 
flesh, and she giggled as her hard breasts tried to poke lewdly through 
between the weave. She felt vulnerable and strong, ready for anything, her 
whole body attuned to sexual response. 

Charlene got to the floor. Quickly, she scooted beneath the hammock. Before 
Pat could figure out what she was up to, the woman's fingers were on her 
dripping mound again, pushing the ropes aside, pulling the rise of her 
sizzling cunt down between them, letting it hang there like fresh fruit 
ready to be picked. She raised her head, mouth open, and clamped it over the 
teenager's leaking pussy. 

Pat let out a scream of excited pleasure. A vortex of sensation began in her 
jiggling cunt and spread throughout her body, right to the tips of her 
fingers and toes. She squirmed in the hammock until it swung so wildly 
Charlene could hardly keep her mouth where she wanted it. She reached up 
commandingly and stopped the swinging. 

Her lips burned over the length of Pat's hair-edged cleft. She licked at it 
frantically, running her tongue over a thousand screaming nerve endings and 
making the girl sob with pleasure. The tip of her questing tongue worked its 
way between Pat's pouty cunt lips, their edges swollen and red with the 
fresh, hot blood that was pumping urgently into the area. She felt the 
tongue moving into her interior, squirming, licking, eating at the base of 
her soul. She felt wicked, depraved, wonderful. She pushed downward in the 
hammock, offering everything to the woman, asking her to take her 
completely, begging her to drive her to climax. She whimpered with senseless 
excitement. Charlene's tongue was so hot, so wet, so demanding. She loved 
it. 

Pat groaned loudly as the model sucked at her openly exposed twat. She 
splayed her legs wide, so wide, and her muscles hurt, but she did not care. 
She was getting what she wanted, what she needed, what she had to have. The 
wetness of the woman's tongue overwhelmed her, and now she could feel that 
Charlene was pumping saliva into her and then sucking it out again, Pat's 
free flowing cuntal juices along with it. She gurgled and mewled with 
pleasure. Her entire groin throbbed with life. The intensity of this 
experience seemed impossible, and yet, here she was, in the middle of it. 
Her body was screaming out its response. She held her breath, trying to keep 
from coming. This had to go on and on and on until she had experienced the 
deepest parts of it. She lay in the hammock, her taut buttocks quivering 
with passion, and she could hear the camera clicking above her. Charlene ran 
her smooth fingers up and down along Pat's soft inner thighs, adding a whole 
new feeling to her raw, passion-edged excitement. 

The model was using her tongue like a tiny cock now, pistoning in and out, 
up and down, forcing the wetness of it into Pat's tight, slippery pussy. The 
dark curls of the teenage pubis tickled at her nose, and she inhaled deeply 
through flaring nostrils, taking in the aroma of Pat's trembling crotch. Her 
mouth was filled to overflowing with the salty sweetness of female juices, 
and she wanted to go on eating it forever. She pulled away for a moment, 
catching her breath before going on. 

"Aw, eat me. Please, please eat my cunt!" Pat begged, her voice ragged with 
raw passion. She wriggled about in the hammock, causing it to swing again 
with the urgent movement of her young body. 

Hearing how desperate her willing young victim was, Charlene decided to 
tease her a little, to excite her more completely, to raise her to an 
impossible, cunt bursting pitch of passion. She brought her tongue to the 
place where Pat's thigh and crotch joined. Flicking it over the smoothness 
of the flesh she soaked her with her saliva, finding new, secret places she 
had not touched before, touching nerve endings Pat did not even know were 
there. 

The girl moaned with pleasure, tossing her head from side to side, all 
thoughts of being in control of the situation gone. She was the beautiful 
model's slave, captivated by her sucking mouth and demanding tongue. 

Charlene moved again to the mouth of the girl's vagina. She ran her tongue 
along its length, licking hotly between its swollen lips. Pat had no defense 
against the wet, writhing invader, and she wanted none. Her moans took on a 
higher pitch, and she could feel the lush, syrupy, feminine juices flowing 
from deep within her passion wracked body. She was more excited and aroused 
than ever in her life. 

"Make me come! Please bring me off!" she whimpered, her eyes tightly closed. 
She knew she was teetering on the brink of a crashing, mind blowing climax. 
Charlene sucked, pulling the soft, yielding flesh of the teenager's pussy 
into her mouth, working it with her lips, again running her tongue deep 
within its taut, pouty lips. Deliberately, she tantalized it with her 
burning body heat, and Pat felt as though her whole body had been thrust 
into a super hot furnace. She could feel the hotness of the woman's soft, 
supple lips against her sensitive cunt flesh, taking her in, working against 
her vaginal walls, taking her completely. She was melting with the heat, 
perspiration dripping from her slim body onto the woman beneath her. Her 
head pounded wildly, and all rational thought was gone. She was now a 
completely physical creature. 

Through passion glazed eyes, Charlene looked up at the girl in the hammock. 
She gazed at the pert breasts with their brownish, swelling nipples. It 
amused her the way they poked through the large holes in the weave of the 
hammock. She looked at the deeply indented navel, and wished there was time 
to run her tongue into it to taste the saltiness of the delightfully 
enclosed flesh. Right now, though, there was a more exciting taste waiting 
for her. She knew from the way the girl was gasping for breath that before 
much longer she would be drinking down the sweetness of her youthful flow. 
She continued sucking Pat's sizzling cleft, tracing over every inch of silky 
flesh, wetting down the sparse bush that covered its mounding edges, loving 
the beauty of its quivering surface. 

With one quick stab, she touched the girl's throbbing clitoral bud, and Pat 
went mad with passion. She screamed, rocking the hammock wildly, her 
buttocks juggling and flexing with excitement. Charlene nibbled, kissed, 
licked and tickled at it, doing everything at once and driving Pat over the 
brink of utter fulfillment. An even deeper moan escaped her gaping lips, and 
she spread her legs wide, offering herself completely. 

Charlene pumped warm, slippery saliva into Pat's flaming crack, and Pat felt 
as though she might faint with raw passion. She could no longer handle any 
of this. It was too much, too far beyond anything she had ever experienced. 
She floated somewhere high above the Earth, away from daily concerns. This 
should go on forever, for all of her life never stopping, never ending. If 
she died of passion, it would all be worth it. Every nerve and sinew in her 
taut body was attuned to her pussy. Every part of her throbbed in rhythm to 
it. 

With a sudden, body wracking moan, Pat climaxed. Charlene felt the deluge 
begin. The hot wetness spattered into her hungrily sucking mouth, onto her 
cheeks, against her scabbling fingers. She sucked down as much of it as she 
could, glorying in the hot, musky taste of it. The female liquor flowed 
plentifully, and she could hardly believe the girl had so much of it to 
give. It tasted so good, so sweet, so youthful. Charlene gulped greedily, 
licking and sucking at Pat's spasming cunt until she had every drop. 

When it was over, Pat lay in the hammock, whimpering with exhaustion, her 
mind still reeling. 

"Christ!" Bartley Jonas exclaimed, "was that something. If I don't sell 
these shots, I'll be surprised. 

"Well, I hope you sell them soon," Charlene grunted as she crawled out from 
under the hammock, "I need the money." 

"Don't worry. You'll get a check as soon as I make the sale." 

"Excuse me while I take a shower. I seem to have cunt juice all over my 
face," the model said, grinning. She gave Pat a lewd wink and left the room. 
"You know something?" Bartley said, turning to Pat, who was still trying to 
catch her breath, "You have a real talent, so young and so uninhibited. That 
should really come across in the photos." 

"Thanks," Pat said, smiling wanly at him. 

"Tell me, can you be like that with men too, or you just into women?" 

Pat found herself shocked at the bluntness of his question. "This was my 
first time with a woman. I'm not a lesbian, if that's what you mean." 

"That's what I was hoping to hear. How would you like to spend the night 
with me?" 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

Pat soon discovered that Bartley Jonas had an apartment that adjoined his 
studio. The place was small, only a large living room with a couch that 
pulled out to form a king-size bed, a compact kitchen, and a bathroom. Even 
though the space was minimal, it was exquisitely decorated, all whites and 
beiges, velvet and leather. 

As soon as Charlene had left, Bartley said, "How about a drink and some 
dinner? Maybe you'll want to have a bath while I fix it." Almost floating in 
the air, Pat followed him into the bathroom. This was another world, so 
completely different from the one she had known that she hardly believed it 
existed outside dreams and movie magazines. 

The tub was sunken and faced with marble. Two wide steps led down into it, 
and on them were tall bottles of bath salts, oils, and all the other special 
additions that turned a bath from a necessity into a luxury. 

With the nude, still exhausted girl standing over him, Bartley turned on the 
gold taps and began to fill the huge tub with steaming water. 

"This will pep you up," he said. "After all, you need your energy. You and I 
have the whole night ahead of us." He gave her a wink. 

Pat giggled suddenly. "You know, I just thought of something. We never did 
get around to taking any pictures showing the orange parasol." He laughed. 
"Hey, that's right. I forgot about it. We'll get around to it. Don't worry." 
He turned off the taps. "Crawl into the tub and relax. I'll put some oil in 
to make it smell nice. Pick out the one you want." 

Pat sniffed tentatively at the various liquids. "This one," she said at 
last, handing the man a bottle of sweet, musky smelling oil. 

"An excellent choice. This one clings to a woman's skin. You'll smell good 
all night long." He poured a stream of the amber fluid into the water. 

Pat smiled at him. "That'll be nice. I want to smell good for you." Bartley 
looked at her sharply. "Careful not to get hung up on a guy like me. Our 
arrangement is strictly business. Understand? Business with a little mutual 
sexual pleasure thrown in. Okay?" 

"Okay," Pat answered, feeling a strange pang deep inside. She slipped into 
the tepid water and let it soothe over her sexually spent body. She lay back 
in the tub, her eyes closed, hardly able to grasp the fact that she was in 
the middle of such luxury. 

"Here," Bartley said, handing her a stemmed goblet, "time for something to 
drink." 

"What is it?" Pat asked as she opened her eyes. She had actually been dozing 
in the water. From the other room, she could smell food. For the first time 
she realized she was hungry, ravenous. 

"It's champagne, of course. Drinking anything else in the bathroom is 
barbarous. You do like champagne, don't you?" 

"I don't know. I've never had it." She took the glass. 

The photographer threw back his head and laughed. "My God! You're wonderful. 
Absolutely perfect. How lucky we were to find you." 

Pat sipped at the bubbling liquid. It tickled her nose, and she loved the 
taste of it. 

"So, whenever you're ready, Madame, dinner is served. You'll find fresh 
towels on the rack and a warm robe in the closet. I'll be waiting in the 
living room." 

"I thought maybe you'd want to take a bath with me," Pat said, smiling up at 
him coquettishly. 

The man chuckled. "Some other time. Right now, I'm hungry. Hurry it up, 
okay?" He left her alone again. Rinsing off the soapsuds, Pat climbed lazily 
out of the marble tub. Boy, if the kids back at the orphanage could see me 
now, she thought. She dried herself quickly and wrapped a towel around her 
long, black hair. Glancing in the full length mirror, she posed for a 
moment. She looked good, slim, lithe, ready for action. Her complexion was 
good too, she thought to herself. Now that the model and Bartley Jonas had 
made such a fuss over her, she was taking a whole new look at herself. What 
she was finding was that she had plenty to offer. If going to bed with 
people like Jonas was what it took to get ahead, she was ready to do it. At 
least it would get her out of Fenston's Feminine Fashions, and she wanted 
that more than anything she could think of. They dined on crisp, fresh 
lettuce salad, sauteed mushrooms, and tenderloin steak, thicker than any Pat 
had ever seen. She tried to eat slowly, savoring every bite, but it was 
difficult. She was very hungry and everything tasted so good, especially 
since it was accompanied by plenty of champagne. By the time they finished 
dinner, Pat felt even more wonderful than she had before. Bartley's 
voluminous, furry bathrobe hugged about her, she sat before the fire, 
sipping the smoothest brandy she could imagine. 

Battley sat close beside her, his arm around her shoulder. She leaned 
against his muscular chest, feeling the hardness of his body through his 
clothing. This was wonderful, like her wildest dreams come true. She felt 
pampered, cared for. How unlike her past experiences with men and boys this 
was. All those times wrestling in the back of some battered old car until 
she finally gave in, pretending she had not wanted to all along. They were 
rough too, those men. They had no idea how to treat a woman. No one had ever 
taught them. 

Bartley Jonas knew. He made love to them all day long with his camera. She 
was sure he would act the same way tonight. Pat snuggled against the man's 
body and sighed happily. Slowly, almost casually, Bartley's hand moved into 
the front of the robe. With cool fingers, he touched the satiny skin of her 
breast. Pat held her breath. Already she was beginning to tingle all over. 
She was ready, so ready. Being eaten to climax by Charlene had only paved 
the way. Now she wanted the real thing, a man's fully erect organ. Only that 
would quiet the hunger she felt deep down inside her sensitive body. 

The photographer's palm cupped her right breast, and Pat let out a little 
cry of excitement. His fingers pressed into her flesh, and she arched her 
back slightly, pushing against his hand. She turned her head, and their lips 
met, softly, passionately, his mouth working against hers, exciting her, 
making her blood simmer with passion. She could already feel her warm, dark 
pussy beginning to grow moist. She knew it was readying itself for him, 
lubricating its narrow lips so that his hugely inflated penis would slide in 
easily. 

She squirmed against the photographer's hard body, soft, mewling cries 
coming from her throat. Her lips opened part way, pushed by his insisting 
tongue. The hot, wet tip of it raked across her straight, white teeth and 
tickled at her sensitive gums. Groaning deep in her throat, Pat opened her 
mouth, and Bartley's questing tongue glided into it. It felt huge inside her 
mouth, squirming and writhing and tasting of her sweet saliva. She brought 
her tongue up to tickle its underside, and it was Jonas' turn to moan. The 
two of them pressed against one another, their tongues dueling hotly. 

The man caught Pat's already erect nipple between his thumb and forefinger. 
He pinched it. Pat gave a gleeful little grunt, pleased at the momentary 
pain. It made her feel alive, let her know all that was happening was more 
than a fantastic dream. She loosened the belt of the robe and let it fall 
away from her shoulders, presenting her half nude body to Bartley as if he 
had not already had plenty of chance to examine it in detail. 

He looked down at her swellingly proud breasts. "Beautiful," he whispered. 
"Perfect. I want to make love to you very slowly, and very completely." 

"Why don't you take your things off now?" Pat whispered. "The fire's so nice 
and warm you'll never miss them." 

His eyes on the semi nude girl, he stood up. Slowly and deliberately, he 
peeled off his cashmere sweater, revealing a muscular chest with blocky 
pectorals crowned by two perfect, brownish nipples. Small strands of hair 
swirled around them and met in a tee at the center of his chest. From there 
it traveled down over his washboard belly to swirl again about his large, 
deeply indented navel. It disappeared at his belt line. 

Bartley opened the heavy brass buckle of his belt, and his fingers reached 
to find his zipper tab. Pat looked up at him, shivering, hunger written in 
her eyes. Slowly, he ran down the zipper, and Pat caught sight of his lush 
pubic curls. They were lighter than his hair, almost blond. The girl 
imagined she could already detect the exciting, earthy scent of male crotch 
in the air. 

The photographer pushed his suede pants down over his narrow hips. His huge, 
fully erect penis sprang into view. It slapped up against his flat stomach 
and then stood straight out in front of him, pointing directly at Pat. She 
let out an excited gasp. It was the most beautiful male organ she had ever 
seen, and it seemed exceptionally large and thick. The purplish knob was 
several inches around, and it looked to her like the head of a club. The 
slit in it was long and deep, and already a large drop of clear liquid was 
oozing from it. Pat wondered what it would taste like, and she felt the 
saliva begin to run inside her mouth. Perhaps, before they were through, she 
would even taste his semen. Pat had tasted male sperm before, of course, but 
never willingly. This time, she would consider it an honor, that is, if she 
could get her mouth around that hugely distended knob. 

The base of Bartley's cockhead was surrounded by soft, pink folds of skin, 
and its shaft was nearly as thick as the head. Blue veins stood out harshly 
against the pinkness of the skin. 

"You like it?" the man whispered, his voice low and tight with desire. Pat 
shook her head dumbly. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. 
She breathed deeply. Now she really could smell the sexy odor of his phallic 
giant, and the smell went straight to her groin, causing her sizzling cleft 
to ooze more syrupy fluid. 

Bartley stepped out of his leather jeans and stood before her, his fists on 
his hips. He could tell the girl worshipped his body, and he loved the 
feeling. Smiling down at her, he stroked his huge prick lazily. His eyes 
burned into her, and she was overjoyed to be naked with him. She licked her 
full, trembling lips lasciviously. 

"You want to eat me?" the man whispered. Not saying a word, Pat slipped to 
her knees, holding out her arms to the man. He stepped up to her, smiling in 
triumph. The aroused girl stared openly at the magnificent male organ, and 
again she licked her lips, her warm, pink tongue tip traveling over them 
quickly, salaciously. 

Bartley thrust his pelvis forward, his gonads swinging lewdly in their hair 
studded sac, the huge bulk of his phallic trophy arching out over them. His 
passion glazed eyes were on Pat's little rosebud of a mouth. She was intent 
on sucking him, and he could hardly wait. 

Leaning forward, Pat brushed her warm, smoldering lips against the inner 
part of the man's hairy leg. She caught the movement of his cock as it 
jerked excitedly in response. Impossible as it seemed to her, the giant was 
growing even longer. 

She moved steadily over the hot flesh of his inner thigh, feeling the soft 
warmth of it, inhaling the clean, sexy odor of the man. He was so different 
from the others. Most of them did not bathe often, and the stench of dried 
ball sweat, old urine, and stale cum would nearly gag her. Bartley smelled 
fresh, manly, good. 

Before long, her face was buried in the fragrant hair at the side of the 
man's pulsing organ. She touched the base of it with the very tip of her wet 
tongue, and she could feel his heart beating excitedly inside his body. She 
traced the root of one of the thick, bluish veins, the blood throbbing 
within it. If she just nipped it open with her sharp little teeth, he would 
bleed to death. Again, as she had this afternoon, Pat felt powerful. She 
could make this handsome male do anything she wanted him to do, all because 
she was performing sexual service. 

Her velvet lips slid over the smooth flesh of the man's penis, moving from 
its thick root to its burgeoning tip and back again, feeling and kissing 
every ridge and vein, her tongue flicking over its smoothness, making 
Bartley quiver from head to foot. 

Soft moans of raw passion escaped his lips, and he reached down to run his 
fingers through her long hair. Pat lapped excitedly at his smooth cock 
flesh, leaving a long, wetly hot trail of saliva along the length of it. She 
played her tongue over it again and again, laving the throbbing glans, 
wetting it down completely, taking in the taste of its musky surface. 

"Eat me, oh, yessssss! Suck me good, Baby!" Bartley moaned, tossing his head 
from side to side, nearly out of his mind with passion. He twisted his 
fingers in her long, silken hair, encouraging her to go on, to explore with 
her flaming tongue, to clean every inch of his surface sweetness. His sinewy 
body felt totally relaxed. He experienced only the effects of the insisting 
tongue and ovaled lips. He wondered how it would be to fuck Pat. She was so 
young. She would be tight, painfully tight. Wonderful, he thought. It took 
someone young and hot and hungry for sex to satisfy him. 

Pat brought her lips again to the tautly engorged head of Bartley's penis. 
Her jaws hurt as she stretched her mouth open as wide as she could. She 
pressed forward until the entire cockhead was inside her. She could feel its 
throbbing life force, and she brought her long, slim fingers up to caress 
his hugely distended, cum laden testicles. Throwing his head back, the 
photographer gave a low, animalistic moan. He moved his penis in and out 
between the girl's lips until the tip of it ached with the friction. 

Spreading his trembling legs even wider apart, he moaned, "Fuck me with your 
finger. Now!" 

It was hard for Pat to believe her ears. None of the men she had known 
before would ever allow a woman to invade them in this way. They would have 
considered it unmanly. Still, she knew from the experience of this moment, 
there was nothing unmanly about Bartley Jonas. The throbbing hotness of his 
cock in her mouth proved that he was all male. 

Trembling, excited beyond belief, Pat moved her fingers upward. She would do 
to him what she had done to Charlene, but much more. She would not simply 
open and stretch his anal opening, she would do exactly as Bartley demanded, 
finger fuck him. The whole idea of applying the word fuck to a man aroused 
her tremendously. 

She probed his tight, muscular ass with her eager fingertips. It felt hot, 
dark, and forbidding. She caught her breath as she felt the wanton, wiry 
strands of anal hair against her fingers. She probed deeply, seeking the way 
through his dark forest, touching at long last the throbbingly moist cleft, 
feeling its convolutions, knowing it opened the door to his living, interior 
flesh. She pushed forward, working her slim finger inward. The tip of it 
entered him and slid upward, moving slowly, bit by bit, while Pat continued 
to suck and nibble at the blunt end of his cock. The finger moved on, 
sliding, gliding, worming its way into the intense heat. She kept pushing, 
pushing, pushing until it was in all the way. 

Bartley moved his buttocks from side to side, flexing his finely tuned 
muscles, thrilling to the pangs of pain and pleasure that were rampaging 
through his body. Pat ate wildly at the end of his hard penis, moving her 
head up and down in rhythm with her probing finger. The man's gonads bounced 
and jerked in their hairy sac, gathering within them an overwhelming load of 
male cream that would soon spurt madly from his deep slit. He could feel a 
screaming climax gushing toward him. 

"Suck me!" he screamed. "Suck me harder! I'm going to drown you with my cum. 
Fuck me with your finger, just like that. Uhhhhhh, uhhhhhh, uhhhhhh." His 
breath came in harsh, wracking gasps, and his whole body trembled so he 
could hardly keep his balance. 

Suddenly, the semen spurted from his bursting penis, coursing deep into 
Pat's hot, commanding mouth. Instinctively, she swallowed, loving the taste 
of the warm, rich cream as it flowed into her throat, bathing her insides 
with its white, seething sweetness. Her lips squeezed tightly at the 
vomiting knob, sucking it until every last drop of man juice was forced out 
of it. 

"Did you like that?" Bartley asked, hardly able to speak. Pat looked up at 
him and smiled. Slowly, she withdrew her finger from the man's dripping 
anus. Looking at it, she found it streaked with brown. Without hesitation, 
her eyes still on Bartley's contorted face, she brought it to her mouth. The 
spicy scent filled her flaring nostrils. Opening her full lips, she sucked 
the finger inside, cleaning it thoroughly and savoring the warmly intimate 
flavor of his excrement. 

Bartley grinned broadly at her. "You're really something else. You like it 
all, don't you? Women, men, assholes, everything." 

"Yes. Yes, I do." 

"Stand up," the man whispered. He got to his knees before the naked girl, 
his trembling fingers opening her legs, spreading her creamy thighs until he 
could see the lush, pink folds of her vaginal cleft. Dropping his face to 
her quivering pussy, he sniffed of it the way a dog might do, taking in the 
sweet, sexually arousing scent of girlish cunt. Then, opening his mouth 
wide, he closed his lips over her nether mouth, the hotness of it sending 
the girl to new heights of passion. His tongue laved over her taut lips, 
just as Charlene's had done, and she let out a low, heartfelt groan of raw 
pleasure. Again she felt worshipped, adored, the object of loving affection. 
She could feel the juices of climax beginning to rise. It was too soon. She 
fought them back. This had to last. They had all night long, and she was 
going to spend every minute of it in sensual fulfillment. 

Bartley's mouth moved slowly up and down. He kissed his way carefully along 
the tight length of her hairy crack, flicking in between her widely splayed 
legs nearly to the tiny hole of her virgin butt. 

He looked up at her. "Sit down," he whispered. She sat on the edge of the 
sofa, her legs spread so wide the muscles of her hips ached. Bartley took 
hold of her thighs and silently urged her forward, causing her back to slip 
down until she was lying on the sofa, her buttocks over its edge. He lay on 
his stomach. She felt his strong thumbs pulling her butt cheeks apart, and 
then she experienced something brand new. His sweetly wet, writhing tongue 
dug deeply into her tiny anal cleft. As the tip of it touched her tightly 
clenched muscle lips, Pat let out a shriek of excitement. She reached behind 
herself, helping to spread her fleshy cheeks, giving him total access to her 
burning rectal passage. 

His squirming tongue moved into her, finding new nerve endings never excited 
before. Pat sobbed and moaned with pleasure, her head tossing from one side 
to the other, the long strands of her dark hair catching between her gasping 
lips. She was beside herself. She had never imagined how wonderful this 
could feel. Tears streamed down her hot cheeks. She was the willing prisoner 
of the wriggling male tongue. 

Suddenly it was gone. Pat gave a little cry of disappointment, a sensation 
of utter loneliness rushing through her body. She raised her head to look at 
him. "Don't stop. Please don't stop!" she cried chokingly. 

"Only for a moment," he whispered. "I want to give you something more, 
something better than my tongue." 

"What? What do you mean?" Pat stammered, a horrible coldness beginning to 
form in her belly. 

"This," Bartley answered. Standing up, he gripped his newly erect penis in 
his hand. It looked larger than it had before. Pat screamed at the top of 
her lungs. Jumping up, she gathered up her clothing, dressed hurriedly, and 
ran from the apartment. She did not stop running until she got back to her 
boardinghouse. 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

Three days later, an envelope addressed to Pat arrived at Fenston's Feminine 
Fashions. Mrs. Fenston sniffed condescendingly as she handed the girl the 
letter. "Here," she said. "Your fans are writing." 

Pat took the envelope back to the storeroom and ripped open the end of it. 
Out fell a check from Bartley Jones, a check for a hundred and fifty 
dollars. Pat looked at the figures and blinked her eyes. She had made more 
money in a couple of hours than she did for a whole week's work at 
Fenston's. There was a note in the envelope too. 

"Sorry about the other night," it said. "It won't happen again until you 
want it to. Can I have another chance?" It was signed, "Bart." 

Pat smiled. Maybe he really was sorry. He was terribly nice, and perhaps he 
would let her call the shots from now on. She had simply over reacted. 

"Patricia, dear," Mrs. Fenston called. "There's a customer here." 

Pat hurried back to reality, stuffing the check and the note into her 
pocket. An artificial smile on her lips, she waited on the customer. That 
very afternoon, Bartley Jonas walked into the store. Coming directly up to 
Pat, he said urgently, "Something's come up." From the look in his eye, Pat 
could tell it was important. 

"What is it?" she asked, half afraid something terrible had happened. "I 
can't talk about it here. Come to the studio when you get off work. I'll be 
waiting." He turned on his heel and left the store not even pausing to ask 
her whether or not she had other plans. She did not, of course. She seldom 
did. 

Pat fretted for the rest of the afternoon. Bartley had looked excited, not 
upset. Maybe nothing bad had happened after all. Besides, what could have 
gone wrong? Perhaps the pictures had not sold. That could not be, though. 
Pat had already received a check. The fact was that Bartley probably just 
wanted to have sex with her again, she thought to herself, smiling secretly. 
He did not have to make up excuses to do that. She was ready any time he 
snapped his fingers, as long as he did not try to do what he had suggested 
the other night. The idea of any man invading her anus made her sick at her 
stomach. 

Perhaps Bartley planned to invite the beautiful Charlene to join them this 
time. Having sex with both those sensually arousing people at the same time 
was so exciting that goose bumps broke out all over her body. 

"Are you getting a chill?" Mrs. Fenston asked sharply. "You can't be sick, 
you know. Our big sale event begins this week. I need you to be on hand." 

"I'm sure I'll be fine, Ma'am," Pat answered quietly as she fled to the 
privacy of the storeroom. When five o'clock finally came, Pat was out of 
Fenston's and up the street as fast as her legs could take her. She ran up 
the stairs to Bartley's studio two at a time. Finding the door ajar, she 
pushed into the outer office. "Bart?" she called. "Are you here?" 

"I'm in the back. Come on in." She stepped into the back room, and there was 
Bartley, his sleeves rolled up, just finishing a developing job. "Pat, glad 
you're here. Change into those clothes over there. We're due there in an 
hour." 

"Due where? What are you talking about?" 

"Never mind. I'll tell you on the way to the party." 

"Party? What party?" The memory of the Christmas charity receptions back at 
the orphanage flooded her mind. 

"Stop asking questions and get dressed. I hope those things are the right 
size. I dug them out of my costume closet." Pat examined the clothing which 
lay draped over a chair in the corner. There were a pair of open sandals, a 
mere crisscross of thin straps, the kind she had seen in the magazines for 
seventy-five dollars. They looked like they were her size or close enough to 
fit. Under them were a pair of slacks, cut like Levi's done in a paisley 
satin fabric, all tones of orange, pink, and yellow. She touched them, 
thrilling to the feel of their elegance. Fenston's Feminine Fashions had 
never stocked anything like this. With them was a see through chiffon 
blouse, cut very tight, large patch pockets the only thing that hid the 
nipples from view. Beside the pile lay a rope of gold chain for her neck. 

Pat backed away from the enticing pile of finery. "You really want me to put 
this stuff on? What for?" 

"Yes, and hurry. We have less than an hour." 

"But where are we going? What's this all about?" The harried photographer 
gave a sigh and threw up his hands. "Oh, all right! I suppose the quickest 
way to get you moving is to tell you the whole story. I sold some of those 
pictures I took of you and Charlene the other day." 

"I know. I got the check in the mail. Thanks." She was about to tell him how 
much she appreciated the windfall. 

"Never mind all that," he snapped impatiently. "The point is that one of my 
regular buyers is Stanley Roush the producer. You've heard of him?" 

"Roush? I think so. He makes movies, doesn't he? The man snorted. "That, my 
dear child, is an understatement. Stanley Roush is a giant in the industry. 
His films gross millions. What's more important, he has a soft spot in his 
heart for pretty, young girls." 

"I don't quite understand. What does that have to do with my wearing these 
expensive clothes?" 

"Stanley Roush took one look at those shots of you and got me on the phone. 
He's giving a party tonight out at the beach house he owns near here. He 
invited me on the condition I bring you along to meet him." 

"Is Charlene going with us?" 

"Charlene's been there before. She's a little old for Roush's taste, poor 
darling." 

"Stanley Roush, the producer, wants to meet me," Pat murmured still unable 
to believe what was happening to her. 

"That's what I said, isn't it? Now hurry up and get dressed." Numbly, Pat 
put on the clothes. Everything fit, right down to the exotic sandals. She 
looked in the mirror. Could this be the girl she knew? Taking her long, dark 
hair, she piled it high on her head, posing before the glass. 

"No, no, leave it down. It makes you look younger," Bartley Jonas ordered as 
he fastened the gold chain around her neck. He hurried her out to his tiny 
sports car. They sped down the highway, heading for the beach. 

After what seemed a long time to the excited girl, the man slowed the car, 
and turned into a short driveway. The space in front of the huge beach house 
was covered with trees and shrubs, hiding it completely from the road. The 
house itself was constructed of glass and rough hewn timbers and looked like 
nothing more than a set out of one of Roush's movies. 

"Here we are. Nervous?" 

"Yes," Pat said. The truth was, she felt totally out of her element. Nothing 
in her background prepared her for something like this. Bartley put his arm 
around her waist and squeezed her close to him. "Don't be afraid," he 
whispered, his lips so close to her ear she could feel his warm breath. 
"Just remember, you have exactly what he wants. Keep your mouth shut and 
stick close to me. I'll tell you exactly what to do." 

As they mounted the deck and walked toward the open front door they could 
see people inside standing in small groups, talking and drinking. Every one 
of them was beautiful, at least to Pat's unsophisticated eyes. Flames leaped 
up in the fireplace which stood in the center of the immense room, and 
behind it all, the ocean, blue-green and powerful, crashed its white capped 
waves on the smooth sand of the beach. 

"Greetings," purred a young woman with highly piled, streaked blonde hair. 
Her stark white slacks and open shirt set off her beautiful, bronze tan. 
"I'm Marnie Pierson, Mr. Roush's personal secretary." She smiled at them 
coldly, her green eyes flicking rapidly up and down Pat's girlish figure. 

"I'm Bartley Jonas, and this is Patricia Norwicki. Mr. Roush called to 
invite me this afternoon." 

"Of course. Here you are on the list." She checked off their names from the 
clipboard she held in the crook of her arm. Then, she leveled Bartley with a 
chilly gaze. "I believe you're a photographer, aren't you? 

"That's right," Bartley answered, his tone less friendly than before. 

"You haven't brought along any of your equipment, have you? Sometimes we 
find our photographer friends like to do that, hoping for candid shots, you 
understand." 

"No. No equipment," the man muttered. 

"Fine," she answered, making another check on her list. "Have a lovely 
evening, won't you?" She floated away. 

"Goddamn uppity dyke," Bartley mumbled. "Is she a lesbian?" Pat asked 
breathlessly. "I can't believe it." 

"One of the most notorious in Hollywood. A real girl eater. Watch out for 
her." 

Pat was about to ask what made the secretary so different from Charlene, but 
Bartley was already shoving a drink into her hand. 

"Nice crowd here tonight," he said "I've never seen such beautiful people," 
Pat replied breathlessly. 

"No more than you are, Baby," Bartley said, giving her a reassuring pat on 
the behind. "Those clothes I picked out for you really show you off to the 
best advantage." 

"How much do you want for these clothes?" Pat asked, half afraid to hear his 
answer. They would surely cost her two weeks pay or more. "Forget it, Kid. 
Let's just call it an investment. Hey, look at this guy. He's coming at us 
like an airplane on a homing beacon. I think he's had small parts in a 
couple of television shows. Christ, look at how he's' eyeing your tits." 

A lanky young blond man in a sport shirt open to the navel and flowing, 
semitransparent slacks approached them. "Hi! You've just arrived, haven't 
you? I don't think we've met. My name's Jimmy Allen, and I work in 
television. Later on, a couple of us are going to perform. I hope you'll 
watch." Through the whole statement, he never took his eyes off Pat's chest. 

Bartley introduced Pat stiffly and then said to her in a loud voice, "Come 
on. Let's go look at the ocean." Taking her by the arm, he led her out onto 
the deck. "You gotta steer clear of that type," he grumbled, half under his 
breath. 

"I thought he was kind of cute." 

"Cute! That's all he is. That kind of guy will use anybody he can get his 
hands on." Pat was about to ask him if that was not what he intended for her 
to do with Stanley Roush, but the incredible beauty of the sea took all her 
attention. The huge waves crashed against the white sand in a whirl of blues 
and greens. The sun was preparing to set, turning the ever moving surface of 
the water into an ocean of shimmering gold. The two of them stood looking 
out at it, sipping their drinks. 

Marnie Pierson stuck her head out onto the deck. "It's time for the 
entertainment. Come on inside so you don't miss it." 

"I wonder where the hell Roush is," Bartley mumbled as they went back into 
the main room. 

Even though she had discovered that the photographer was generally high 
strung, Pat had never seen him act this nervous, and the man's unrest 
carried over to her. Except for that, though, she was having the time of her 
life. There was nothing to be nervous about as far as she could see. 

"What kind of entertainment is there going to be, do you suppose?" 

"It could be anything. I've heard some pretty wild stories about these 
parties Roush throws. They usually turn into orgies before the night's over, 
or so they say. By the looks of the guy we met earlier, if Roush told him to 
suck himself off in front of the whole crowd, he'd be happy to do it." 

"What's an orgy?" Pat asked as they sat down. Bartley looked at her and 
chuckled. "God, but you're charming. I almost hate to see you lose that 
beautiful innocence of yours. By tomorrow morning, I guarantee you, you'll 
know what an orgy is." 

Marnie Pierson stepped to the center of the floor and clapped her hands, 
commanding attention. "Tonight, you lucky boys and girls, we have a special 
treat, Jimmy and Jean, a couple of rising talents. Mr. Roush has asked them 
to dance for you tonight, and as a special favor, they agreed. Here they 
are." 

There was a scattering of polite applause, and Marnie nodded for someone to 
dim the lights. The flames of the massive fireplace cast weird, flickering 
patterns on the walls. Someone drew heavy drapes to keep out prying eyes, 
casting the room into near darkness. Music began, a slow, sensuous beat, 
heavy with drums. Two lithe figures leaped into the center of the large 
room. One was the boy who had introduced himself to Pat earlier. The other 
was a young girl, slim and sinewy, her hair precisely the same color blond 
as Jimmy's. Pat wondered if they had dyed it to match. If they had, what a 
strange thing to do, she thought. The girl was dressed the same as Jimmy 
too, flowing, see through pants and a blouse open to the navel. Both of them 
were barefoot. Pat could actually see the patches of fuzz that crowned their 
pubic zones, and in the boy's pants leg the long, flaccid organ of 
excitement. The two of them writhed and twisted to the music, their 
movements openly sexual. Dramatically, they shoved their pelvises forward, 
inviting the audience to take part. A shiny layer of perspiration covered 
their smooth skinned bodies, making them glow invitingly in the light of the 
fire. Pat could not take her eyes from the bulging crotch of the blond 
Jimmy. She could almost smell the healthy muskiness of it. 

The dancing couple took one another by the hand and moved to directly in 
front of the fire. Pat could now see the man's long cock and cum laden 
scrotum through the thin fabric of the almost transparent pants he wore. 
Likewise, she saw his partner's delightfully fine cunt hair and even an 
indication of the indentation that was her succulent little pussy. How she 
would love to have both of the dancers at once, she thought. She could eat 
out the girl's deep, sweetly moist cleft while Jimmy shoved his huge, creamy 
skinned phallus into her happily accepting vaginal furrow. Pat giggled to 
herself. How lewd she was becoming! She had been so shy about sex up to now. 
Not in taking part, of course, just in talking and thinking about it. That 
was all changed now, and she had Bartley Jonas to thank for it. 

The male dancer jerked his abdomen suddenly, and his huge genitals bounced 
invitingly. Pat's greedy eyes grew wide with attention. She thought she 
could see a spot of wetness on his sheer slacks. He must be drooling 
pre-seminal fluid. How exciting. The girl was wet there too. Her tender cunt 
juicing over with the evidence of her growing arousal. 

The two blond dancers spread their legs wide, and Jimmy's penis grew more 
erect. They twisted their slim hips front to back and side to side. 
Everybody in the room was watching them, breathless with excitement. 

Now Jimmy was completely, burstingly erect, and Pat found the size of his 
phallus hard to believe. Outlined in the light of the fire, it looked 
absolutely immense, the kind that would leave a girl happily and totally 
exhausted. 

Jimmy and Jean turned away, their trim buttocks facing the audience. They 
writhed and shook, jerking wildly with their long legs spread wide. As if 
they were answering a secret call, they opened their flowing slacks, their 
backs still to the crowd. They let them fall slowly down their legs, over 
the smooth, silken cheeks of their perfect buttocks. They stood nude from 
the waist down, their bodies like beautiful pieces of sculpture in the 
firelight. 

Now they undid their shirts, shrugged in time to the sensual music, and let 
them fall over their shoulders and off onto the floor. Kicking their 
discarded garments out of the way, they spread their legs again and bent 
slowly forward. Jimmy's swinging gonads came into view, huge in their hair 
studded sac. Their hands touched the floor, and their perfect, delicately 
rounded anal openings were spread wide before the appreciative audience. 

Jean stayed in position, but Jimmy raised himself slowly and sensuously to 
an upright stance, the muscles of his back rippling invitingly. In profile 
now, his huge, distended erection jutted straight out in front of him. 
Slowly, moving in time to the music, he approached the girl from the rear. 
His big hands caressed her smooth sides, feeling every inch of them, running 
up and down their smoothness again and again. He moved closer. Still Jean 
bent over as if she were offering him her anus. Pat held her breath. It was 
horrible. Could they really be going to do that? For all her revulsion, she 
felt a strange, overwhelming excitement. Lewd feelings washed over her with 
the same intensity as the waves hit the shore outside the big windows. 

Taking his immensely erect penis in his hand, Jimmy rubbed it up and down 
the length of the girl's long, hairless crack. The audience went wild, 
applauding, shouting encouragement, urging the blond man on. Jean reached 
behind herself and saucily grabbed her fleshy cheeks, stretching them wide 
apart as though challenging him to take her all the way. Pat could see the 
blunt, purple head of his cock touching the tiny, convoluted opening. The 
girl did not look frightened. She looked as though she could hardly wait for 
it to happen. Could it be? Was there really something desirable about anal 
intercourse? Had Pat been missing some almost magical experience? 
Ridiculous! She closed the thought out of her mind. 

Suddenly, Jimmy pulled away. It had all been symbolic, all part of the 
salacious dance. The audience moaned with disappointment as though they had 
been cheated in some way. The couple fell into one another's arms and 
writhed against one another. Pat could see the girl's pert, young breasts 
pushing into Jimmy's broad chest, and she envied both of them. 

They finished by doing a lewdly arousing tango across the floor, and then 
the music stopped. The two of them leaped to the center of the room, bowed 
deeply, and then skipped out of the room. The applause was deafening. 

The lights came up again. 

"There he is," Bartley hissed into Pat's ear, "Stanley Roush. He's coming 
over. Get ready, and remember, do whatever he tells you." 

 CHAPTER SIX 

An uncomfortably heavy looking man was heading across the room in Pat and 
Bartley's direction. He smoked a long, foul smelling cigar and stopped 
frequently to greet the guests. Whenever he did so, he glanced quickly at 
the photographer and his young charge. It was obvious he was intending to 
get to them. 

"Good evening," he said, his voice booming above the music. "Bartley Jonas, 
isn't it? I like your work. Sit and look at it for hours, when I have the 
time." He guffawed coarsely, blowing out huge, smelly clouds of cigar smoke. 

"Thanks, I'm sure," Bartley answered quietly. "I'd like you to meet Pat 
Norwicki." 

"Ah, yes, yes. You're the subject of that last batch of photos. Nice to meet 
you in the flesh, Kid. Those shots of you with that dyke really got to me." 

"Thanks," Pat answered, not knowing what else to say. 

"Come with me," Roush ordered abruptly. Turning he started away. 

"Go ahead. Follow him. Hurry up," Bartley whispered, giving her a quick 
push. 

"But what am I supposed to do?" 

"Whatever he tells you, like I said before. Hurry up. Your whole future 
might depend on what happens in the next hour." 

Reluctantly, Pat followed the heavy set man across the room. As she walked, 
hands came out from nowhere, caressing her body, exploring her tightly 
packed buttocks, exciting her to lewd thoughts. The party was obviously 
getting more intimate by the second, and she hated to leave it, especially 
since she had no idea where Stanley Roush was taking her. 

The producer opened a door and turned, smiling salaciously at Pat. "Come in 
here," he croaked, the gravelly tone of his voice sending shivers up her 
spine. He closed the door behind them and turned the lock. When he flipped 
on the lights, she saw that they were in what was clearly the master suite. 
It was a large room, dominated by a king-size bed with a lavishly embossed 
leather spread. 

"Do you like this place, Kid?" the jowly man asked. 

"Yes, Sir. I never saw anything like it." Roush let out a loud snort. "Next 
to my place in Hollywood, this place is a dump. I only come down here about 
one weekend a month, when I need to get away from the routine. Take off your 
clothes and lay down on the bed." 

"What?" 

"You heard me clear enough. Strip! I want you naked right now. Don't try to 
pretend you're shy, not after what I saw in those pictures I bought from 
that two bit photographer friend of yours. None of the other girls he's 
brought me have been shy, not in the least." 

Do whatever he tells you, Bartley had told her. Quickly, her fingers shaking 
nervously, Pat took off her clothes. Roush stood by, rubbing his hands and 
grinning lecherously as she disrobed. 

"So beautiful," he muttered. "Better than the photos, a hundred times 
better." He unbuttoned his sport shirt, letting his fat, fish-white belly 
protrude. Undoing his pants, he dropped them to the floor, standing before 
Pat in only his baggy white boxer shorts and deck shoes. "Lay on the bed, 
like I told you!" He gestured toward the king-size bed. "But don't you want 
to take the leather spread off first? We might ruin it." 

"Fuck the stinkin' spread. Who cares? Lay down." Pat did as the man told 
her, her whole body trembling with the fear of the unknown. She watched 
apprehensively as Roush dropped his shorts. His half erect penis bobbed 
before him, short and fat, but even bigger around than Bartley's. She 
wondered how it would feel to be fucked by an organ that thick and had a 
sickening feeling she was about to find out. 

Sitting down on the bed, the producer began running his clammy hands over 
her flat stomach and mounding breasts. "Beautiful!" he kept grunting, over 
and over again. He dropped his face to Pat's deeply indented navel, and she 
could feel the hotness of his breath against her skin. For the first time, 
she began to feel aroused. His long, thick tongue snaked into her navel 
cave, and she squirmed with delight. A mouth was a mouth was a mouth, she 
thought, giggling lasciviously and writhing about on the smooth leather. The 
feel of it against her bare back and buttocks was delightful, almost like 
having another, young, supple body beneath her own. 

Lying between her widely splayed legs, Roush reached up suddenly and grabbed 
her exposed breasts roughly in his thick fingers. He pushed and kneaded the 
flesh of them, bringing quick, harsh moans of pain from the girl's gaping 
mouth. She felt suddenly alive and aroused beyond belief. 

Without warning, he dropped his face to her fragrant, sparsely haired 
crotch, and she fainted with pleasure as his heavy tongue delved directly 
into her pouting pussy, licking salaciously up and down its sizzling length, 
loud slurping noises making the moment all the more exceptional. Stanley 
Roush might be fat and ugly, but he knew how to arouse a woman, to bring her 
screaming to the heights in what seemed like no time at all. 

Pat lay writhing on the huge bed, her buttocks drinking in the soft warmth 
of the leather spread. She wriggled in unbearable delight, her trim pelvis 
lifting from the bed, pushing her face-eating cunt against Roush's greedily 
sucking mouth. Soft, intense, mewling cries escaped her full lips, and she 
tossed her head from side to side. She was no longer aware of where she was, 
who she was with. All her body knew was that it was crashing down the 
highway of fulfillment. Before much longer, she would scream in climax, her 
whole body wracked with the delicious stress of completion. Every nerve and 
muscle were now attuned to that end, and there was nothing anyone could do 
to stop it. 

The hot, perspiring area of her fleecy groin cried out for relief. She 
spread her long, tapered legs even wider and lifted her feet into the air. 
Her heels pounded against the producer's back, and she writhed, rocking back 
and forth, her labored breath issuing in deep, heartfelt sobs. 

"Fuck me! Oh, please, you gotta fuck my cunt noo-oo-oo-oow. Please, 
pleeeeee-ease!" Rough hands turned her on the bed. Her quivering body 
responded, and she flopped onto her stomach. Almost without knowing what she 
was doing, Pat bit into the leather of the bedspread, feeling it yield 
softly beneath her sharp teeth. 

Roush raised her buttocks now, pulling up with pinching hands, forcing her 
to her knees, her face still buried in the bed spread. He was going to take 
her dog fashion, from the back, she realized suddenly. That was wonderful. 
Men had done that to her before, and the experience was unspeakably lewd and 
exciting. His thick penis would shove into her, opening the drooling lips of 
her burning hot pussy. She was so ripe, she was so ready. It was all she 
could do to keep from climaxing before he even began his thrust. She wiggled 
her smooth, succulent ass cheeks, indented with dimples, inviting the man 
onward, encouraging him in his salacious taking of her. She waited on all 
fours, feeling like an animal in heat, the juices of her hot cuntal opening 
running down to stain the leather spread. The lips of her pussy twitched 
excitedly as even more hot blood pumped in to redden and enflame them. She 
would literally suck the slimy, freshly churned cum from the producer's 
swollen gonads. 

Roush's hands grasped her tender buttocks as he worked his way in between 
her wide spread legs. He wiggled back and forth against her flaring thighs, 
the blunt tip of his hard penis nudging against her sensitive flesh. His 
organ seemed huge now, even thicker than it had looked before, and it was 
hot, almost burning her skin. 

"Ouuuuuuuuu, stick into me. Let me have it right now. I can't wait any 
more!" she squealed. 

She groaned with raw passion, her cunt open and juicing over from end to 
end, ready to accept him, eat him, milk him dry. 

"Stick that sweet little butt of yours up high, Kid. I'm gonna screw you 
hard enough to last you a whole lifetime." 

"Yes, yessssssss, that's what I want to have you do. Stick it in, 
nooooooow!" The heavy man pushed forward, and Pat moved back against his 
belly. He dragged the bulbous, blood engorged head of his cock through the 
syrupy wetness of her drooling slit, soaking his shaft and covering it with 
her feminine liquor. 

Looking down at her soft, jiggling ass cheeks, he decided suddenly what he 
was going to do. She would be so tight there, excitingly taut and unused. He 
would make the little bitch scream with pain. That would take some of the 
cockiness out of her. He would give her something to remember him by. 
Squeezing the smooth surface of her buttocks, he smiled to himself as he saw 
dark red welts rise on her flesh. She groaned painfully. Already he was 
hurting her, but it was nothing compared to what would come. 

Letting go of Pat with one hand, he took the burning thickness of his veiny 
erection in his palm. Again he wriggled it through the hot wetness of her 
naked cunt, lubricating it, making it slippery with her womanly slime. 

"Put it in me!" she howled, having no idea of his real intention. Perhaps, 
he thought, he was taking a virgin. Perhaps he was about to thrust his penis 
into a darkness where no one had gone before. He hoped so. Shivering, he 
thought of all that yielding tightness. 

Gripping his phallic giant as though it were a knife, Roush worked it up 
between the smooth, hairless cheeks of her behind until its blunt, rounded 
knob nudged urgingly against the tight, closed ring of muscle that 
surrounded her nether lips. 

At that instant, Pat finally understood what he was about to do to her. 
"No!" she screamed. "You can't put it there. No! You'll kill me! 
Pleeeeeeease stop, stop!" 

The producer laughed coarsely. "The hell you can't take it there," he 
grunted. "Anybody can take it there, even a man." He tightened his grip on 
her squirming buttocks and pushed hard against her tiny, totally vulnerable 
anal opening. 

Pat was helpless and unable to defend herself against him. With one beefy 
hand, he shoved her face into the mattress, half smothering her and masking 
her pitiful, frightened cries. She could feel the head of his prick forcing 
itself into her body, and there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop 
him. 

Roush thrust forward. He could feel the vainly resisting muscles of her anal 
mouth relax defeatedly. Again grabbing her succulent, trembling cheeks, he 
jerked her backward roughly, skewering her on his awesome hardness. 

Her scream echoed to the rafters. "Aww-wwwwww! No, no, NO," she sobbed. 
"You're killing me!" Pat could hardly breathe, and she was fighting hard to 
keep from passing out. Roush dug his fingernails into her softly yielding 
flesh. "Don't bother yelling, Bitch. Nobody's gonna hear you. I had this 
dump soundproofed for times like this." He thrust deeper, taking her all the 
way with his blood engorged erection. He trembled all over, feeling her 
fleshy anal sleeve molding itself around his penis as if it were a condom. 

Still sobbing, her entire rectum burning as though a hot poker had been 
thrust into it, Pat shook her head groggily as she lifted it from the 
mattress. She tried to concentrate on staying alive. Then she caught her 
breath. Could it be? It seemed almost as if the pain were receding. A tiny 
part of her was beginning to respond to the huge, virile cock stretching out 
the tight walls of her canal. She discovered herself suddenly filled with 
new sensations, vibrating with passionate life. Then, sudden as a bolt of 
lightning, she realized that she loved being screwed in the ass. She loved 
it! She was crazy for it. 

"Oh, yeah!" she moaned, her voice low and growling with raw passion, "Screw 
me with your big dong! Shove up there. Give me every throbbing inch of that 
meat!" 

"That's more like it," Roush grunted piggishly. "That's the way I like my 
women to sound. You love it now, don't you? You're never gonna be able to 
get enough prick up your butt, are you?" 

"No, no, never. Give me more. Pleeeeeeease!" She tossed her head from side 
to. side, gasping for breath, her entire being singing with passion. The 
tight walls of her constricting anus gripped at the man's pulsating phallus. 
He was into her all the way, and he rocked her back and forth on the bed, 
watching as his blood engorged organ slipped hotly in and out of her 
grasping rectum. Her pink anal flesh clung to his gleaming hardness as if it 
were afraid to let him go. He grinned down at her humping back, filled with 
feelings of superiority. Again he had conquered, again a woman was his. He 
had brought her ultimate pain, and she had quickly learned to love it. Now 
that he had blasted her open, Roush knew he had created a totally sexual 
animal. She was ready for whatever steps might come next, bondage, the 
exquisite pain of sadistic sex, anything. He let his bloated erection nose 
into the tightness of her dark, moistly warm channel once again, grinding 
his wiry pubic hair against her tender cheeks. 

Her anus stretched wide, its rubbery lips gripping the very root of the 
man's cock. He was far up inside her bowel now, and Pat could not believe 
how wonderful it felt to have him fucking her like this. Life throbbed 
within her, probing, pushing further, ironing out every curve and crease of 
her silken interior flesh. 

She pushed backward, giving a wail of absolute, naked submission. "Oh, yes. 
Stick it in me, Man! Oh yeah, feels so goo-ooooood!" She writhed about with 
abandon, her passionate pleasure reaching heights she never knew existed 
before this moment. She bucked her trim buttocks back against his pelvic 
zone, skewering herself even more thoroughly than before. She found herself 
wishing his penis were two feet long, long enough to reach her heart. She 
moved from side to side, swinging her buttocks, squeezing and rubbing the 
turgid flesh of his penis, making him groan like an animal in high rut. She 
clenched her naked ass cheeks, milking him, making the nether lips eat at 
the thick prisoner between them. 

Roush howled at the feeling of tightness. Her muscles delighted him as they 
fluttered wildly about his taut erection. She was eating him alive with her 
asshole now, and he loved it. Pat pushed back against him frantically, 
rotating her buttocks, grunting, taking everything he had to give. 

Pat knew it was about to happen. Without his even touching her cunt, she was 
reaching her climax. It was incredible, wonderful, far beyond everything she 
had ever dreamed. She was not alone. Grunting deep in his throat, Roush 
bucked his cock harder and harder into her tight sheath. His cock burrowed 
in so deeply now, that he knew he could do no more. 

"Now, Baby," he gurgled, nearly crazy with passion. "It's time. I'm coming 
my guts out!" He shook all over, his breath coming in short, frantic gasps. 
Then he came. His hugely inflated gonads drew up tightly against the root of 
his penis, and he emptied them in one, long, soul-shattering stream. His 
hot, white love cream poured into the teenager's demanding rectal passage. 

The hot sensation of his steaming cum pouring into her was enough to send 
Pat across the threshold. "Ooooooooh, yessss-ssss," she hissed. "I, I'm 
commmmmm-mmming right noooooow!" 

Her boiling pussy surged with female liquids, and they came pouring out of 
her body to drench the bedspread beneath her. She collapsed, sobbing and 
moaning with delighted exhaustion. 

Stanley Roush pulled his spent penis out of Pat's ass and flopped down onto 
the bed beside her. Smiling lewdly, he whispered, "How'd you like to be in 
the movies, Kid?" 

It sounded to Pat like a line out of an old film. 

"Sure, why not?" she answered, grinning at him. 

"Good. We'll drive up to Hollywood in the morning. I'll have Marnie arrange 
a screen test right away. Once you're through that, I've got a movie role in 
mind for you." 

Suddenly, Pat realized Roush was not being funny. "You mean it, don't you?" 
she asked. 

"Of course," the producer snorted. "I never screw around when it comes to 
business. I got a feeling you can make it big, and I'm willing to take a 
chance on that." 

"But, Mr. Roush, I can't just go off like that without telling anybody." 

"Why not? Who do you have to tell? You got a boyfriend or a lover or 
something?" 

"No, but I do have a job. I have to give notice. They have a big sale coming 
up this week, and they need me." 

"Look, Kid. Call them tomorrow and quit over the phone. I guarantee you in a 
month they'll be hanging signs in their windows telling people you used to 
work there." 

"There's my room at the boarding house. 

I should check out." 

"Forget all that shit. The studio will provide everything you need, clothes, 
makeup, all of the necessities. Right away, our publicity department will 
start building you an image. That includes your wardrobe, where you live, 
what you eat, who you're seen with, everything. What do you say, Kid? You 
willing to give it a try?" 

Pat shook her head in disbelief. Could this man be telling the truth? Then 
again, even if he was not, what did she have to lose? As long as the studio 
provided for her needs, she had nothing to stop her. If the whole thing was 
a lie, all she had to do was hitch hike home. 

"Sure, Mr. Roush," she said. "I'm willing." Chuckling, Stanley Roush shook 
her hand. The gesture seemed strangely formal considering what the two of 
them had been doing only moments before. "You won't regret this, Kid. You'll 
be a star, I know it. The boys at the studio will take care of the contracts 
and all the other particulars when we get there tomorrow. Why don't you go 
back out and enjoy yourself at the party. It ought to be really swinging by 
this time. Just make damn sure you're here at nine." 

"Thanks, Mr. Roush. Aren't you coming back out there?" Stanley Roush laughed 
loudly and shook his head. "Not me. I need sleep. I'm not like you kids. You 
can go all night long and still be fresh in the morning. Go ahead. Enjoy 
yourself." He opened the door and pushed her out of the room. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

Pat was floating on a cloud as she walked into the main room of the beach 
house. She had to find Bartley Jonas and tell him what had just happened. 
She would not tell him everything, of course. Let him guess for himself at 
what went on between her and the producer on his king-size bed. There was a 
lot she had to thank Bartley for, and she knew exactly how she wanted to do 
it. 

The living room looked like something out of a cheap Biblical epic. People 
were coupling in every possible position. At least fifty of them were spread 
out across the floor in groups of two, three, as many as seven. Most of them 
were completely naked. She could smell marijuana, and the air was heavy with 
the blue smoke of it. 

A few couples, most of them nude like the rest, danced before the fireplace. 
One pair was even screwing in standing position to the intense amusement of 
those around them. They clung to one another, the man actually lifting the 
girl from the floor as he thrust his mighty erection into her body. 

In all parts of the room, groups of guests were intent on sexual pleasure. 
Marnie Pierson, Roush's secretary, was kneeling before one of the low 
couches, her face buried in the crotch of a beautiful young black woman. So, 
Pat thought to herself, what Bartley said was true. She watched them 
longingly, wanting to take part, despite her recent draining in the bedroom. 
There was not time now, though. She had to find Bartley. 

Women knelt, their faces buried in the cushions, their buttocks spread wide, 
while men ravaged their behinds just as the producer had done to her. From 
every corner of the huge room came groans, grunts, and the wild sounds of 
sweating bodies slapping into one another in sexual abandon. 

Pat had put her clothing back on before leaving Roush's bedroom, and now she 
felt a little out of place. She stepped across the naked bodies, trying as 
best she could not to disturb them. Hands came up to fondle her crotch, 
making it tingle with fresh sensation. She knew that before very long she 
would be ready to join in. 

She made her way to the bar and poured a glass of whisky. Leaning back 
against the mirrored wall, she sipped it slowly, her eyes roving the room in 
search of Bartley Jonas. 

A tall, skinny young man not more than a year or two older than she suddenly 
appeared beside Pat at the bar. Grinning at her, his eyes glazed and out of 
focus, he held out a smoking roach toward her. She took a deep toke and 
handed it back to the youth. 

"Thanks," she whispered, trying to hold as much of the burning smoke in her 
lungs as possible. 

"You're pretty," the boy said, slurring the words. 

"Thanks," Pat replied, smiling at him. 

"How'd you like to go down on me?" He pushed his pelvis forward lewdly, his 
long, flaccid penis flopping against his thin legs. 

"Maybe later," Pat answered, surprised at her own casualness. "Right now I'm 
looking for the man I came here with." 

"Suit yourself, Honey," the boy said, shrugging his narrow shoulders. "I'll 
be around if you want me, and my cock's always hot for blowing." He drifted 
off into the crowd. Pat felt herself beginning to grow more relaxed. The 
combination of pot and alcohol was beginning to have its effect, and she 
liked the feeling. What had happened in the bedroom was beginning to seem 
more real to her. Was her life really going to change completely? She would 
know more in the morning. In the meantime she had nothing to worry about. 
All she had to do was relax and have a good time at the wildest, most 
unrestrained party she had ever attended. Just watching the guests cavort 
about her made her ready for action again. 

At that moment, the black woman Roush's secretary had been eating out came 
floating over to the floor. Pat watched her as she moved, a tawny, jungle 
beast. Tall and lithe, she had the smoothest complexion imaginable. She 
looked at Pat through heavy lidded eyes. 

The woman poured herself a scotch and eyed the teenager hungrily all the 
time she was doing it. "I haven't seen you before, have I?" she asked, her 
voice as soothing and dark as an African night. 

"I noticed you, though. You were with Mr. Roush's secretary just a few 
minutes ago. 

The woman laughed. "Yeah, that Marnie loves to eat twat. You had her yet, or 
don't you go in for that kind of thing?" 

"Sometimes. It all depends." The woman smiled, her teeth stark white against 
the ebony of her skin. "She'll get to you then. She has good taste. How come 
you're wearing clothes this late in the evening?" 

"No reason, I guess. I feel out of place to tell you the truth." 

"Then maybe it's time you got rid of them, hey?" 

Pat chuckled at the simple logic of the woman's statement. "Yes, I guess it 
is." 

Quickly, she peeled off her borrowed clothing, rolling it up and stuffing it 
in behind the bar. She could feel the woman's dark brown eyes burning into 
her. 

"You got a real nice body," the negress whispered. "Thanks," Pat answered 
quietly, blushing at the woman's directness, even though they were in a room 
filled with naked, intertwining people, doing things Pat had hardly dared 
dream about before. This was all so different from what she had known, so 
open, so free. There was no grunting and groaning in the cramped back seat 
of an old sedan for these individuals. 

They were what life was supposed to be about, and now Pat was part of it 
too. 

Marnie Pierson and the skinny young man Pat had talked to earlier came over 
to join them, walking hand in hand. 

"Pat, Jerry here tells me you and he visited earlier," Roush's beautiful 
secretary said, smiling enticingly at her. 

"It was hardly a visit, really," Pat answered. 

"Well, whatever it was, he's more than a little interested in you. Aren't 
you, Jerry?" 

The skinny youth nodded bashfully. 

Marnie turned back to Pat. "Mr. Roush was more than a little interested in 
you too, Dear, wasn't he?" she asked. 

"Yes, I guess you could put it that way. I'm supposed to go back to 
Hollywood with you in the morning, if he was serious." 

"Oh, he was serious. Mr. Roush never jokes when it comes to business." 

"Hey," the black woman said, "I see a clear place over there on the floor, 
if you're in the mood." Without waiting for an answer, she headed toward the 
opening, the other three following eagerly. 

Jerry, the tall youth, brought up the rear, and his hands were immediately 
caressing Pat's cheeky buttocks. The attention was exciting to her, and tiny 
rows of goose bumps broke out wherever his long fingers moved. 

The angular black woman lay down on the floor and spread her legs. She 
opened her arms invitingly, and Marnie Pierson was in them at once, kissing 
her, licking her lips and cheeks, covering her with ravishing attention. The 
secretary's softly rounded buttocks stuck high into the air, their smooth 
surface golden in the light of the dying fire. 

"Looks like they've found something to keep them busy," Jerry said to Pat, 
grinning broadly at her. "How about us?" The dark haired girl looked him up 
and down. Now his penis was at full rise, long and elegantly slim. A thatch 
of copper curls covered its root, and she thought she could catch the scent 
of its musky arousal. It was difficult to tell for sure, though. The room 
was filled with the smells of sex. By way of answering him, Pat lay down on 
the floor beside the black girl and stretched out salaciously. "Well," she 
purred, smiling up at him, "What are you waiting for?" The boy fell to his 
knees. Quickly, he bowed his head and started trailing his wet, pink tongue 
over Pat's flat, trembling belly. She giggled softly, her fingers playing 
through his long hair, encouraging him, urging him on. His hands were busy 
too, one of them running over the tenderly sensitive flesh of her inner 
thighs, the other exploring her softly mounding breasts. He was playing her 
like an instrument. For one so young, she thought, he had apparently been 
around a lot. 

Pat found herself instantly aroused. Soft, mewling sounds issued from her 
throat. She threw her head back, closed her eyes, and just let it all 
happen. All about her, she could hear the guests in various stages of 
orgasm. It was like being in some wild sex maniac's dream, being caught up 
in a foreign realm of sensual magic. 

Looking to the side, she saw that Marnie was now back in her favorite 
position, sucking the sweet, flowing juices from her black companion's 
quivering, cleanly shaved pussy. Her buttocks were still high in the air, 
and the invitation was too much to be resisted. Jean, the blonde girl who 
had entertained earlier, swooped down from nowhere. Naked as the rest, she 
was like a perfectly formed child, a classic Greek statue come to life. She 
knelt behind Marnie, and her full, red lips fell at once to kissing the 
silken flesh of the woman's fleshy cheeks. Marnie moaned lewdly, wriggling 
her buttocks from side to side, at the same time never missing a stroke in 
her frantic tonguing of the black cunt. 

Pat caught herself wondering what had happened to Jimmy, the girl's blond 
partner, and suddenly, he was kneeling beside her. "Hi," he whispered, 
"remember me?" Pat reached up impulsively and put her arms around his neck. 
Their lips met, the sweet wine of their spittle flowing between their open 
mouths. In seconds, Jimmy's hands were running competition to the other 
boy's over her breasts, and Pat arched her fine back, silently begging them 
to do as they liked. Fingers pinched and twisted her succulent, puckery 
nipples, and Jerry's mouth was now concentrating on the sparse fuzz of her 
cuntal mound. He pulled the hairs through his teeth, teasing her, bringing 
momentary pain, making her feel wanted and filled with life. 

Suddenly, she felt the skinny youth's tongue thrust in between her blood 
engorged pussy lips, and her moaning deepened to a jungle sound. His tongue 
entered her vagina, just as Jimmy's tongue dug deeply into her mouth, 
tickling the roof of it, engaging her own wet weapon in loving battle. 

Pat felt another hand. Looking over, she saw that the black girl was toying 
with her breast, even as Marnie coaxed her up toward maddening climax with 
her ever licking tongue. Pat was the center of attention. Never in her life 
had it been like this before. She wiggled her pelvis salaciously, lifting it 
to offer all of herself to the boy licking her crotch. Immediately, he 
scooted between her legs. He's going to fuck me now, she thought. I can't 
wait. But he did not, not right away. He continued his frantic licking, 
almost as if he were in competition with the female slurping loudly only 
inches from his side. Little by little, he lifted Pat's knees, spreading 
them wide and exposing her completely to his wet, salivating mouth. She felt 
his tongue tip touch the bottom edge of her inflamed slit and then move 
surely and deliberately on down over the hard area between her cunt and her 
anal crack. What if he finds Roush's left over cum, she wondered. What would 
he think? Who cared? She relaxed and concentrated on Jimmy. He was kissing 
down over her dimpled chin now, stopping to bite it playfully with his 
sharp, superbly white teeth. She giggled. The sensation of his teeth on her 
sensitive flesh went straight to her crotch, and she felt the flow of juices 
quicken. 

Jerry's tongue touched her asshole. Pat let out a sharp, high pitched cry 
and reached down, spreading her own cheeks for him. Let him delve as deeply 
as he liked. She was open territory now. Stanley Roush had taken care of 
that. Perhaps it was the price of her stardom. If so, it was an easy one to 
pay. 

Jimmy moved down over her long, slim neck, kissing and laving, pausing to 
suck playfully at her skin. Jerry's tongue was deep, deep inside her now, 
exploring her rectal gateway. Maybe he wanted to put his penis there, the 
way the producer had done. Pat was not certain she could take that kind of 
screwing again so soon, but she was hot enough to try if that was what he 
wanted. 

Jimmy had reached her breasts, and he stopped to kiss the hand of the black 
girl, who was still caressing them. Then he began to suck, vacuuming her 
tender, puckery nipple in between his lips and squeezing gently. Flames 
leaped up in the girl's hot breast, and she squirmed on the carpet, carried 
away with raw passion. 

Now the other boy's tongue left her anus. Was he losing interest, she 
wondered. Then she sensed something new, something blunt and fleshy, pushing 
at the pulsing lips of her inflamed pussy. She was going to be fucked. Pat 
held her breath. Could all this be happening to her at once; the black woman 
toying with one nipple while the magnificent Jimmy ate at the other, and now 
the slim youth between her legs getting ready to push his long pencil-like 
penis far up into her belly. She arched her hips up off the carpet to him, 
offering her body, inviting him to bathe in the well of pleasure that was 
her vagina. 

The boy sank into her. She felt her taut lips push aside, felt his turgid 
member slide slowly and steadily onward. A soft, gurgling cry escaped her as 
she threw back her head, letting it loll from side to side on the rug. 

The tall black girl was at climax. Mamie's educated tongue had done its 
sensuous work. As it wrapped around the negress' clitoris again and again, 
the girl raved with pleasure, sobbing and crying out a steady stream of 
obscenity. Marnie slurped mightily, drinking down all she could get of the 
sweet, female juice that spurted to her from the long, black-edged slit. 

Jerry was in the full way, sounding Pat's fleshy, warm depths, rotating his 
slim hips from side to side to wipe his knobbish head over every inch of her 
sexual interior. Rasping cries of pure, rawly alive pleasure came from her 
gaping mouth. She rocked and writhed on the floor, rising to meet his pile 
driving thrusts. 

Jimmy raised his face from her seething breast for a moment. "Pull my cock," 
he whispered hoarsely, "jack me off." He moved around to where Pat could 
grasp his long, thick penis in her palm. It was burning, hot as fire. She 
knew it would not be long before the classically handsome blond vomited a 
pent up load into her willing hand. 

Jean, Jimmy's dance partner, had moved her laving mouth down between Mamie's 
butt cheeks, tracing along her warm, hairless crack to delve deeply into her 
sweet, spicy anus. She ran her wet, pink tongue over the tiny convolutions 
of the rectal muscles and pushed inward until she was fucking the woman 
vigorously with her mouth. Just as the black girl climaxed, Jean moved 
again, now getting down in between Mamie's widely splayed knees. Lying on 
her back, she looked up into the secretary's succulent, moistly inviting 
twat. It oozed big drops of sweet sexual juice, and Jean could not wait to 
suck them away and into her demanding throat. She raised her head, and her 
lips made contact with the lips of Mamie's sopping pussy. The older woman 
grunted in satisfaction even as she was lapping up the last bits of her 
black friend's cuntal gushings. 

Jerry's cock moved in and out of Pat's body like a steel piston. His trim 
buttocks flexed and dimpled as he screwed, side to side in out again, again, 
again. His young body was covered with a heavy layer of sweat, and it fell 
from his chest, splashing and puddling on the girl's smooth, heaving belly. 

With a great deal of struggle, Marnie and the black woman changed position, 
Marnie moving slowly so that Jean would not miss one stroke of her wild, 
urgent cunt-tonguing. The negress got to her hands and knees. Her face was 
only inches from Pat's heaving breast. She looked down at its tiny, puckered 
nipple, her dark eyes glittering hungrily. With one quick swoop, she sucked 
it between her thick, rubbery lips and began laving it wildly with her 
tongue, just as Jimmy was doing to its mate. She suctioned harder, taking as 
much of the soft, yielding flesh into her mouth as she could, nipping at it 
with her sharp, whitely smooth teeth. 

Pat cried out, beside herself with pleasure and gentle pain. One man was 
sucking her breast, and now a woman. Jerry still punished her drooling twat, 
pushing into her so deeply she felt as though his fleshy cockhead might come 
out through her mouth. 

Marnie was looking down into Pat's face, her cheeks still shiny with the 
black girl's cuntal leakings. "God, you're beautiful!" she whispered. "We 
will make you a star. You'll see." She kissed the girl full on the lips, and 
Pat's nostrils were overwhelmed with the scent of climaxed cunt. 

Marnie dug her long tongue into Pat's mouth, claiming the hot depths of it 
for her own. Still jacking the blond boy's swelling, throbbing penis with 
one hand, Pat reached with the other to caress lovingly at Mamie's 
pendulous, melon shaped breasts, exploring and squeezing the nipples between 
her thumb and forefinger. Pat grunted and shoved her hot, squirming tongue 
further into the teenager's mouth. 

Pat's body was a melting, expanding sea of pure pleasure. Every sensation 
imaginable ran through her. The very wickedness of giving herself over to 
four people at once for their pleasure as well as her own was beyond her 
lewdest dreams. One hand on an expanding phallus, one on a swelling breast, 
mouths at her nipples, making them so swollen they were erect with pain. 
Best of all was the hotly, thickly hard penis ramming into her greedily 
trembling pussy. It thrust again and again in an established pattern of 
movement, and repeated sensations of lustful pleasure coursed through her 
hot blooded veins. 

Jimmy raised his head from his sucking. She felt his huge phallus grow even 
larger in her fist. "Awwwwwwwwww," he groaned, "I'm commmmmmmmmming. I can't 
hold it off!" 

"Quick! Get up here so she and I can eat it," Marnie cried, practically 
drooling in anticipation. The blond boy knelt above their faces, and Pat and 
Marnie clamped their lips over his hugely swollen knob. The hotness of his 
flesh nearly burned their mouths as they sucked, playing their teasing 
tongues over the marble smooth flesh. The deluge began. Jimmy threw his head 
back and shouted so loudly it echoed off the ceiling. "Take it, you cunts. 
Take my hot cum!" 

Sucking and drinking, the two women took in his streamers of hot, viscous 
fluid. Their lips roamed over his knobbish head, fighting for his wiggling 
seed, their wet tongues touching one another, meeting at the man's deep, 
spurting slit, circling over his turgid, satin smooth flesh, kissing the 
halves of his mighty head. 

Pat felt the deluge rising within her. There was no way to stop it now, nor 
did she want to do so. At the same time, Jerry's long penis grew all the 
more stiff, flowering suddenly into its fullest growth. 

"OH SWEET JESUS!" the youth shouted. "I'M COMMMMMMMMMMING SO HARD. Gonna 
blast you, blast your cunt wide open." He writhed between her legs, and Pat 
felt the first of his hot sperm gush into her. 

She replied with her own crashing, vividly excruciating climax. It came upon 
her in wave after wave. She bounced from one climax to another, rebounding 
ever higher on the endless ladder of raw, sensual arousal. Her whole back 
left the floor as she bounced with passion, as though a million volts of 
electricity were coursing through her burning flesh. 

"OH, GOD OH GOD HOLY GOD!!!!" she moaned. "I CAN'T STAND IT! I'M GONNA DIE 
DIE DIE!" She fell sobbing and nearly unsensed back onto the floor. After a 
long time, the sex cluster moved apart, except for young Jean, who was still 
sucking and licking wildly at Mamie's flaming twat. The rest were too 
exhausted to do more than lie huddled against one another, listening to the 
sounds of sex that came from all about them. The smells of sweet burning pot 
and of raw sexual essence filled their flaring nostrils. Pat found herself 
becoming aroused all over again, even though such a thing did not seem 
possible. 

Her glazed eyes focused on the scene before her. A large breasted blonde 
woman stood with her legs spread wide. An oriental man, compact and 
muscular, knelt before her, the dim firelight reflecting off his superb 
physique. His arms around the standing woman, he ate her out like a wild 
animal. 

Behind her, another man, a massively built black athlete, dug his wet, pink 
tongue deep into her ass. The woman could hardly stand, nearly swooning with 
sexual pleasure. Besides that, the glazed look on her face revealed she was 
so stoned she did not even seem to know where she was. 

Circling the tableau, concentrating on every lewd detail of it, was yet 
another naked man, his long, thick penis jutting like a steel rod in front 
of him. It was Bartley Jonas. Hunching and then stretching, he was 
pretending to photograph the orgy from every angle. As if he held his 
beloved camera, he pretended to squint furiously through the lens, seeking 
just the right, most provocatively perfect shot. To Pat there was something 
immensely grotesque about his performance. Still, she knew she had to talk 
to him, to tell him about her good fortune with Stanley Roush. 

Marnie reached out and held her back. "Forget about that one, Baby. He's a 
nobody. After tonight you don't need him, and you won't, ever again. It's 
best to steer clear of types like him." 

Pat relaxed back into the woman's persuasive arms, just as Marnie began her 
wild climax against the sucking Jean's hard mouth. 

She threw herself onto her king-size bed and sobbed uncontrollably, her body 
wracked with fear. 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

Pat's first film was a gangster movie. It was a low budget production, and 
she had only a minor role. Nevertheless, it was a beginning. Everything 
Stanley Roush had promised her was true. She had been given an instant 
career in films, handed to her on a silver platter. She was not a star, not 
by any means, not yet. The studio was grooming her, though, giving her a big 
buildup, preparing her for an important place in its long range plan. Two or 
three photo sessions a day were not unusual, and the wardrobe department 
fitted her with the most exquisite clothing imaginable. Fan magazines were 
beginning to mention her stage name more and more frequently. 

That stage name was something she was not too happy about. Stanley Roush 
himself decided it should be Patricia Norwalk. Patricia! She still hated the 
name, but she had learned early not to question any of Mr. Roush's 
decisions. He was the boss, and no one ever forgot it. 

Pat sat on the broad, sunny deck of her penthouse apartment, looking out 
over the awakening city. She had heard rumors that the studio was looking 
for a large house for her, something suited to the needs of a budding star, 
but that would happen only after the release of her next film. She had been 
promised a major supporting role in it, and it was slated to play the first 
run houses all over the country. Unless something absolutely unforeseen 
happened, the movie would establish her. Her initial screen test had 
convinced everyone at the studio of her potential. On film, her face several 
hundred times normal size, she had an exciting sensual innocence that 
appealed to men and women alike. 

The publicity department was taking no chances with her image. They set up 
any number of dates for her with aspiring male actors. She went with them to 
film premiers, benefits, nightclub shows, and official parties, always 
displaying a white toothed smile, trying carefully not to squint as 
thousands of flashbulbs went off in her face. 

To Pat's dismay, at least half of her studio supplied escorts turned out to 
be gay. They could hardly wait to drop her off after the arranged date so 
that they could be about their business. The dates who were straight usually 
ended up spending the night with her. Pat saw to that. She was no longer shy 
in any way. Maybe it was the new tranquilizers the studio doctor had 
prescribed for her. Whenever she took them, she was relaxed and completely 
able to deal with any situation that might happen to arise. Sometimes it 
took two of the capsules to do the job, but she had to admit they worked. 
The doctor had said something about her needing to watch her drinking when 
she took the pills, but she did not pay much attention to that. She had 
herself under control. She was only on her second gin and tonic now, and it 
was nearly noon. Gin, she had discovered, was a good thing to drink in the 
morning, particularly after a wild, all night party with plenty of drugs and 
drinking. She was attending a lot of those parties now. Sometimes she 
thought back to how awed she had been that night at Stanley Roush's beach 
house. That party was tame compared to some of the ones she had been to 
lately. 

Tonight, she thought to herself as she stretched lazily in her deck chair, 
it would be her turn. She was giving the party, her first. Of course, the 
studio had arranged everything. All she had to do was act as hostess. 
Unfortunately, the photographers would be there, so she would have no fun. 
This night would be strictly work. Still, no one could predict what might 
happen late in the evening, after the reporters and studio brass had left 
for the night. Pat dozed in the sunlight, secure in the knowledge that her 
maid would call her in plenty of time to bathe and dress before the makeup 
man arrived. 

* * * 

The party had gone well. Pat said good night to the last reporter, closed 
the door behind him, and surveyed the crowd. They seemed to be the same 
familiar group, the people she had spent so many late nights with lately. 
The faces of a few of them were new, but she knew the type, people dedicated 
to the hedonistic pursuit of sex of any type as long as it pleased them. 

She reached into the covered jar on the hall table and found what she was 
looking for, the tiny red pills, the uppers she had secured on the black 
market. Quickly, she gulped two of them down, chasing them with a huge gulp 
of scotch. 

Pat drifted across the living room. Already her remaining guests were 
beginning to disrobe, some of them dancing lewdly more or less in time to 
the loud stereo music. It was as though some silent signal had been given, 
she thought. The moment she closed the door on the public, the world, the 
party began. 

She picked her way through the crowded room, hands reaching out to touch her 
on the crotch, the breasts, on her pert, tightly encased buttocks. Pat did 
not stop to heed any of them. She knew exactly what she wanted and exactly 
where to find it. 

Quietly, she opened the door to her bedroom. At first she could see only 
blackness, but she knew that, according to the silent code of her hedonistic 
set, the master bedroom was always the center of group sex, anonymous and, 
therefore, all the more exciting. 

Pat's eyes began to adjust, and she could see some of the activity on her 
huge, king-size bed. She closed the door quietly. The high ceilinged room 
was filled with the sounds of heavy sex, the moans, groans, grunting, 
labored breathing, and flesh slapping against naked, willing flesh. 

This was what she liked best, Pat thought; the thrill of being immersed in 
sweating bodies, doing what she liked with them as though they were toys 
created by some master for her particular sensual pleasure. 

A dark figure left the bed and drifted over to her. Without a word, the 
naked man let his hands cup her breasts. They began at once to tingle, and 
Pat could feel her nipples going immediately erect. The man's warm, full 
lips brushed against hers, and she opened her mouth to him. 

Pat started getting rid of her clothing, moving slowly and sensuously as if 
she were a snake shedding its outgrown skin. Her head was fogging up from 
the combination of pills and liquor, and she could not remember how to open 
her belt. The naked man helped, his fingers sure and commanding. In less 
than a minute, she was nude. 

Taking her by the hand as though she were a child, the man led her over to 
the bed. She stood looking down at it. How strange, she thought, this was 
her bed, where she slept almost every night, and it was covered with 
writhing, coupling strangers. They formed a multilimbed machine, designed 
for and dedicated to sex. Pat could not decide where to enter it. Then, 
suddenly, her mind was made up for her. A hand reached out, and its palm 
cupped itself over her sizzling cleft. She could not tell whether it 
belonged to a man or a woman, and she did not care. All she knew was that it 
felt good, and she pushed her pelvis forward, bumping her pussy into the 
gently exploring fingers. Slowly, the hand pulled her to the edge of the 
mattress. 

Soft, full lips began caressing her legs and thighs, working their way up 
slowly to her fleecy vee. Even though she squinted against the darkness, Pat 
could not tell who was touching her or how many of them there were. All she 
really knew was that her level of arousal was growing by the second. 

She spotted an up pointing penis in the darkness. It was monstrous, one of 
the largest she had ever seen. It was crowned by a heavy, dark patch of 
pubic fuzz, and she could make out the gigantic, cum laden balls at its 
base. Leaning forward, she sucked it into her mouth, caressing it with her 
tightly ovaled lips. The hand at her crotch helped ease her up onto the bed, 
and she knelt between the man's hairy legs, sucking his penis with total 
concentration. 

"Let's have a little light in here," someone said. "I like to see who I'm 
fucking." Several people laughed, and someone reached out and flicked on the 
bedside lamp. The huge room was bathed in dim light, enough so that faces 
and bodies were recognizable. Pat glanced up at the man whose cock she was 
sucking. He was handsome, with a shock of black hair hanging down over his 
forehead. His hands behind his head, he watched the girl work on him, a 
smile of amusement on his lips. 

Pat felt a mouth at her buttocks now, and she quivered, raw passion rushing 
through her hot veins. A hot, wet, thickly squirming tongue was pushing its 
way into her anal tunnel. She longed to be fucked there. Ever since that 
night with Stanley Roush, she loved nothing more. She wiggled her buttocks 
in open invitation. In a moment, perhaps the writhing tongue would be 
replaced by a virile erection. If that did not happen, she would sit on the 
one she was laving with her expert tongue. But that would not be nearly as 
exciting as being skewered from each end, hanging like she were a hunk of 
meat ready to be roasted. 

Pat glanced back over her shoulder at the person eating out her anal canal. 
There would be no penis. It was a woman. The face was puffy, and she looked 
older than she apparently was. Too much liquor and too many drug trips, Pat 
thought. She must have been beautiful once, but now her face was lined, huge 
bags showing beneath her eyes. Even naked, she looked unkempt. 

The woman smiled at her. "You don't remember me, do you?" 

Pat shook her head, confused. "No. I don't." 

"I remember you, though. You're even more beautiful than you were then. I'm 
Charlene. I used to model for Bartley Jonas. You came in one day to deliver 
something, an orange parasol. Now do you remember?" 

It all came flooding back to Pat now. This worn out female was the first 
woman she had ever had sex with. At the time she thought Charlene was the 
most beautiful woman she had ever seen. 

"Yes, now I remember," she whispered. "You ought to remember all your old 
friends, you know. Take Bart, for instance. You should get in-touch with 
him. Things aren't going so well for him right now. He was asking about you 
last time I saw him, wanted to know whether I'd run into you since I moved 
to Hollywood. He said he's tried to write several times, but the studio 
sends the letters back. What he wanted was your home address. Isn't it 
interesting that I got asked along to this party? Here we are, and now I can 
let our old friend, Bart, know how to reach you personally." 

Without warning, Pat leaped to her feet. Standing on the body covered bed, 
she started shouting and waving her arms frantically. "Get out, all of you. 
The party's over! Pick up your goddamn clothes and get the fuck out of here. 
NOW! Do you hear? NOW!" 

As though there had been an explosion, the crowd grew silent. Then, 
murmuring quietly among themselves, they picked up their things, dressed 
silently, and left in a subdued wave. 

In less than twenty minutes, Pat was all alone. She looked about her. The 
penthouse was a shambles, everything out of place, glasses on every table 
top, cigarettes smoldering in the ashtrays. 

 CHAPTER NINE 

Three days later, the envelope arrived. It was very plain, but it had come 
special delivery. Pat sat staring at it for a long time, instinctively 
knowing what it contained. Her fingers shaking out of control, she ripped it 
open. 

Inside was a photograph, torn in two pieces. It showed her face and the face 
of Charlene, as she had looked the day they met. The bottom half of the 
picture was missing, and Pat knew only too well what it would show. She read 
the note scrawled on the back of the half she had. 

"Be at my studio at 10:00 pm on Tuesday. We need to talk." 

The note was not signed. It did not have to be. 

Pat glanced at the clock. It was nearly five in the afternoon, and it was 
Tuesday. She picked up the phone and called Stanley Roush's office. "Let me 
speak to Mr. Roush," she said, her voice shaking. Roush would know what to 
do about the blackmail threat. He had bought photos from Jonas, and he had 
warned Pat how important it was that she never pose for any such shots 
again. He would know exactly how to handle this situation. 

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. Pat drummed her 
fingers nervously against the marble table top. 

"Thank you for waiting," came the operator's voice. "Mr. Roush is not in." 

"This is Patricia Norwalk. Please have him call me the minute he comes to 
the office." 

"I'm afraid that's impossible, Miss Norwalk. Mr. Roush left to go on 
location in Ecuador this morning." 

"Then let me speak to Marnie, his secretary." 

"Mr. Roush took Miss Person with him. Sorry, Miss Norwalk." Pat hung up the 
telephone and sat for a moment as though she had been turned to stone. There 
was no one to help her. She would have to take care of it herself. She 
called downstairs to have her car brought around, dressed quickly, and left 
for the long drive to Bartley Jonas' studio. 

She tore down the freeway, the roar of the sports car's engine loud in her 
ears. The studio had loaned it to her for a few weeks. It was supposed to 
fit her image, young, vital, and full of life. Right now she felt like 
anything but that. For the first time, she was facing real terror. If only 
she had made sure to get those photos and the negatives for them right at 
the beginning. Stanley Roush could have arranged it. All she would have had 
to do was ask. The trouble was it never occurred to her. How stupid she had 
been, how naive. Now there was no way of knowing how much Bartley would want 
to repress them. The payments might go on all the rest of her life. Any 
magazine would pay thousands for them, even if they were too hot to print. 
Having them in their possession, they could describe them to their hungry 
readers in lurid detail. Her career would be ruined before it really began. 

Pat was not sure what Bartley Jonas would say to her or what deal he would 
try to make. Her personal budget did not contain money enough to satisfy a 
blackmail demand. The studio could cover it, of course, perhaps putting the 
photographer on some kind of phony retainer. It was simply a question of 
whether the executives thought her future was worth that kind of investment. 
The best she could hope to accomplish now was to convince Bartley to wait 
until she had a chance to speak to Stanley Roush. 

Reaching into her purse, Pat found two of her tranquilizers. She had taken 
two of them before she left the penthouse, but they had not calmed her at 
all. Feeling underneath the seat, she closed her fingers around the neck of 
the bottle one of her dates had stashed there last week. She uncorked it, 
popped the pills into her mouth, and washed them down with a large mouthful 
of vodka. It burned all the way down, and it felt good, warming her whole 
body. She took another mouthful, and another. 

Soon the tranquilizers began to work. The scenery went whizzing by, and she 
felt as though she were driving through some sort of dream. She concentrated 
carefully on the center line to keep from weaving. She could handle the 
situation just fine. She would handle Bartley Jonas too. Who was he anyway? 
The man was nothing but a small time photographer who made his living by 
peddling pictures of cheap models like Charlene. Charlene, that bitch! 

Tomorrow Pat would see to it that she was taken care of too. She would never 
work again, at least not in Hollywood. Just a word to the right people at 
the studio was all it would take. Pat would nip her in the bud. Those creeps 
would learn not to cross her. After all, she was Patricia Norwalk, and she 
was a star. 

Pat drove down the main street of the town where she had lived. Nothing was 
changed. Strange, she thought. It seemed an eternity since she had left for 
Hollywood with Stanley Roush. How long had it been, really? She could not 
remember. Maybe she never had lived here at all. Pat shook her head, trying 
to rid herself of the drug induced fog. Her confidence was going. She took 
more pills, more vodka. By the time she pulled into the alley behind Jonas' 
studio, she felt fine. She was ready for anything the bastard might try to 
pull. 

Heading up the back stairs, she turned down the hall. The door to the outer 
office was ajar, just the way she remembered it always being. She entered 
quietly and stood in the empty office. Bartley would not be expecting her 
until ten. She had the advantage of surprise. 

Pat walked back into the studio. There was Bartley, bent over his camera, 
aiming it, getting ready for the next day's sessions. 

"Hello, Bart," she said, her voice almost a whisper. 

The man looked up in surprise. "Pat!" he said. 

"I got your note." 

"Oh, yeah. Glad you came down. I thought you'd be here at ten, though." He 
seemed to fumble for words. Good, Pat thought, let him squirm. 

"What do you mean, glad I came down? You told me to be here, and you made 
sure I would with that cleverly ripped photo you sent." Bartley smiled 
sardonically. "I thought you might remember the picture. If you want to see 
more, I have the rest of those shots right here." He walked over to the 
filing cabinet and pulled open the top drawer. 

Look at him, Pat thought to herself. He actually thinks he's in control. 
Bartley came back to where she was standing, a large, manila envelope in his 
hand. Opening it slowly, he acted as though he were giving Pat some kind of 
present. With one quick gesture, he spread the eight by ten glossy prints on 
the table, grinning sadistically. 

Pat looked down at the pictures. Could that really be her? Every detail was 
there. Charlene eating her young cunt, the two of them kissing with open 
mouths, everything. Her hunch had been right. There was more than enough to 
ruin her. 

"Where are the negatives?" she asked, fighting to keep her tone even. 

"Right there in the file drawer. You'd be amazed at the stuff I've got in 
those files. A lot of people would." 

"And do you try to pull on a lot of people what you're pulling on me?" 

Bartley chuckled. "What do you think I'm trying to pull on you, Kid?" 

"The word, I believe, is blackmail." 

The photographer threw back his head and laughed. "Blackmail? Let's just say 
I'm trying to get you to show your gratitude to me for putting you where you 
are today." 

"I'm grateful to you, Bart. I always have been." 

"You have a funny way of showing it," the man snapped, scowling at her. 
"Don't you remember that night at Roush's beach house? Don't you know that 
you went off to Hollywood without even saying good-bye? Don't you realize I 
haven't heard from you since?" 

"Yes, well ... I ... I was in such a hurry. It all happened so fast, and ... 
Pat stammered. She could feel her confidence sinking again. She wished she 
had a drink. Feeling into the pocket of her slacks, she hoped for more 
pills. There were none there. She could feel the cold perspiration running 
down her spine, and she was hot and chilled all at the same time. What did 
Bartley Jonas mean by putting her in this state? What had she ever done to 
deserve this? All she wanted was to be famous. Was that so bad? She deserved 
that much. Everybody did. She was Patricia Norwalk, and she was going to be 
a star. She loved the parties, the drugs, the ever present sex with people 
she hardly knew, glamorous, uninhibited people. Bartley Jonas wanted to take 
all that away from her, and she hated him for it. 

"You were in such a hurry?" the photographer asked, mocking her. "And what 
about all the months between then and now? Are you still in a hurry, too 
much in a hurry to stop and thank the man who made you?" 

"How much do you want?" Pat asked with a cold calmness she did not feel. 

Bartley shook his head. "Nothing," he said simply. 

"Nothing? What do you mean?" 

"I just want you to know I have the negatives, and that I can sell them any 
time. I will too, no matter how big a star you become." 

Suddenly, it was clear. "So that's it. You want control over my life. You 
want to be able to smash me like a bug whenever you feel like it." 

The man nodded slowly. "Something like that. Maybe I never will, and then 
again...." He was smirking at her, his face a grim parody of a smile. 

With an angry sweep of her arm, Pat threw the photos to the floor. "My, my, 
don't we have a temper, now that we're famous!" Bartley said, chuckling. "Do 
the pictures disturb you? I know all about you Hollywood types. You do 
whatever you want to do, as long as nobody gets the evidence on film. I've 
been to a few of those parties, the ones where they frisk you at the door to 
make sure you're not carrying a camera. I dreamed of trying to sneak one in, 
but with people like you around, I don't have to. Maybe I'll just decide to 
come to a few of the parties you throw. Would you like that?" He was 
smirking at her again. 

Suddenly, Pat felt overwhelmed by the situation, totally beaten. "Okay," she 
sighed, "what do I have to do?" 

"That's more like it. A little humility is always so touching. For starters, 
you can show your appreciation in a very direct way. You make me horny, Kid. 
You always have. How about taking care of my hardon for me?" He leaned back 
against the table. Yanking open the buckle of his belt he ordered, "Get down 
on your knees." 

Pat knelt on the floor. She looked up at the photographer, her face even 
with the man's burgeoning crotch. She reached for his zipper slide, but he 
slapped her hand away. 

"Not that way. It's too easy. Pull it down with your teeth, like the street 
scum you are." Leaning back, he arched his pelvis forward demandingly. With 
her tongue, Pat found the zipper tab. She caught it between her teeth. What 
if she chipped them? The studio people would scream at her if that happened. 
They had already spent thousands of dollars on her dental work. A tooth was 
huge on screen. It had to appear perfect. 

Clutching the tab in her mouth, Pat pulled downward. Bit by bit, the man's 
fly began to open. As the wide vee opened in the front of Bartley's pants, 
Pat could catch a whiff of male crotch. As it always did, the scent went 
straight to her pussy, and she felt arousal beginning despite her 
uncertainty and feeling of degradation. The zipper was down all the way now, 
and she could see Bartley's lush, moist looking pubic bush as well as the 
root of his already erect phallus. The hard tube of male flesh made a large 
ridge down his pants leg, and Pat wondered whether or not she would be 
allowed to pull it out into the open with her fingers. 

"Now pull my pants down with your mouth, you fucking bitch dog. I'm giving 
the orders here, and you're going to do exactly what I tell you to from now 
on. Pull!" Holding the fabric of the slacks in her mouth, Pat pulled at it. 
Stubbornly, it did not move. She reached up instinctively to pull the slacks 
down over Bart's thighs, but the man slapped her fingers hard, pushing them 
out of the way. Gripping harder, Pat gave another jerk. Her jaws hurt from 
the effort. 

Little by little, the pants crept down Bartley's long legs. His long, meaty 
penis sprang into view, vibrating as if it were on a spring. A heavy drop of 
pre-seminal fluid already crowned its pulpy tip. 

The mighty organ filled Pat's vision, and she licked her lips longingly, her 
nostrils flaring wide as she took in the delightful male scent. Bending 
forward, her mouth prepared for the musky taste of cock meat, the girl 
sought to swallow it. 

Without warning, Bartley hit her hard along the side of her face and sent 
her sprawling onto the bare floor. She shook her head, trying to clear out 
the singing sensation in her head. 

"Christ, Bitch, you really are hungry for prick, aren't you? No wonder 
everybody up in Hollywood is so crazy about you. All you're good at is 
sucking cock, and that's all you need. Well, I'll let you swallow my prick, 
but not until you've got my pants all the way down. And take off my shoes 
and socks too. Right now." 

Getting to her hands and knees, Pat positioned herself at the man's feet. 
She managed after some fumbling to take one of his shoe laces between her 
lips, and she pulled at it. The knot came loose. What was she doing here, 
anyway? Who was this man, and why was he making all these demands? She ought 
to get back to the store. Mrs. Fenston would be wondering where she was. She 
had only come to make a delivery. What was it? Yes, an orange parasol. They 
had ordered it especially for him. Her head was still ringing from the blow, 
and she felt numb all over. 

After much struggling, Pat managed to pull the man's shoe off. Next came his 
left one. For some reason, that was easier for her. Then it was time for the 
socks. She tried to pull them down by grasping the tops between her teeth, 
but neither one of them would budge. 

"Pull them from the toes," Bartley growled, looking down at her 
disdainfully. "Can't you do anything right? How the fuck many times do they 
have to give you your cues, or do they just dub in all the dialogue later 
because you're too stupid to read?" 

What was the man talking about? Didn't he know she worked at Fenston's 
Feminine Fashions, and that she had to get back there? Who did he think she 
was? No, not there. She worked someplace else now. She lived somewhere else. 
Pat could remember a big apartment, a view of a city. She could remember no 
more. She wished she had some more tranquilizers. 

At last, her nostrils filled with the cheesy smell of feet, Pat managed to 
pull his socks off. She dropped them to the floor, one by one, wondering 
what she was supposed to do next. Maybe now she would have the opportunity 
to taste the long, succulent looking cock that bobbed so enticingly before 
her eyes. 

Bartley sat back on the table. "So you're hot to eat my prick, are you?" he 
asked scornfully. 

Hungrily, Pat looked him up and down, her eyes coming to rest again on the 
hard, shining end of his stiff erection. "Then first you have to clean my 
feet. Lick them off completely. Start with my toes and clean every inch of 
them just like the dog you are. Then we'll see about my cock." Pat fought to 
keep from retching. Slowly, her hands trembling, Pat took the heel of the 
man's right foot. Holding it up to her face, she began licking each toe 
carefully. She took first one and then another of them into her hot, wet 
mouth and cleansed it thoroughly, just as Bartley had ordered. The flavor 
was sour and overwhelmingly dirty tasting. She could taste all the grime and 
sweat hidden in the secret clefts of enclosed flesh. She closed her eyes 
tightly and licked hotly at it, trying to convince herself that she liked 
it. Her head was spinning. Was this really happening, or was the whole thing 
some fantastic, degrading nightmare. 

As she worked, Bartley Jonas grunted approvingly. He looked down at her 
scornfully, his already hard penis jerking toward ever harder erection. Pat 
laved the sole of his narrow foot, cleaning his flesh, taking in the bitter, 
salty flavor. Finished, she transferred her attention to the left foot, 
giving it exactly the same thorough treatment as she had the first. Finally, 
the job completed, she let it drop to the floor. 

"Done?" Bartley asked. "You're sure they're completely clean, aren't you?" 

"Yes," Pat said quietly. Bartley kicked her hard in the mouth, sending her 
skittering on her back across the bare floor. Splinters of wood bit into her 
back, and she groaned with pain, half losing consciousness as the back of 
her head smashed against the hard flooring. 

The photographer stood above her, scowling menacingly down at her prone 
body. "I'm to be addressed as SIR, and don't you forget it. I'll teach you 
to keep the proper tone. If I like, I can beat that pretty face of yours to 
the point where nobody will ever want to take a picture of it again. I made 
you. Don't you ever forget it. Understand?" 

"Yes, Sir," Pat muttered sullenly. "Tell me something, Pat," Bartley said, 
his tone changing completely to something almost friendly and 
conversational. "That night at Stanley Roush's place, that night when you 
forgot I existed, he took you into the bedroom. Do you remember?" 

Pat nodded her head, wondering what the photographer was getting at. 

"What did he make you do? Why did he make you a star?" 

"Nothing. He just talked to me, that's all." Bartley Jonas threw back his 
head and guffawed loudly. "Oh, come on, you don't really expect me to 
believe that, do you? They say that Stanley Roush has a certain procedure he 
follows with all his new people, almost a ritual. They say he screws every 
one of them in the ass, no matter whether it's a man or a woman. He treats 
everybody the same, like they were pieces of meat. Is that how he treats 
you?" He gave her a nudge with the tips of his toes. 

With a blood curdling scream, Pat leaped to her feet. She pushed into 
Bartley's chest with both palms. A startled look on his face, the man took a 
step backwards and lost his balance. He fell back, his head cracking loudly 
against the corner of the table. From there he slumped to the floor. 

Pat looked down at him, trying to remember who he was and why she had pushed 
him. It was obvious he needed help. His head was tilted at a crazy angle. He 
looked like a rag doll discarded by a willful child. Before she could do 
anything, though, she had to have something to clear her head, something 
like a drink. 

In a haze, she wandered into Bartley's apartment. Where had the liquor been 
kept? It had been so long ago, or had it been last night when she gave him 
the blow job, and then he threatened to force his huge erection up her anus. 
How unnatural! How could anyone even think of such a thing? Perhaps that was 
why he was lying in the other room now. Perhaps she had pushed him down, 
fighting to protect her virgin rectum against his willful, anal rape. 

No, that could not be right. She had run away. Then, what was she doing here 
now? Finding a bottle of scotch, she grabbed it and went back into the 
studio. Taking a deep drink from the open bottle, Pat looked down at Bartley 
Jonas. He had not moved. A trail of red trickled from his nostrils, more 
from his ears. She knelt and put her ear to his chest. His heartbeat was 
faint and fluttery, the sound of it erratic to her. As she listened, it 
disappeared altogether. Bartley Jonas was dead, and she had killed him. 

Without letting herself feel the horror of what she had done, Pat got up, 
moving mechanically. She knew exactly what she had to do. Going to the 
filing cabinet, she removed the drawers one by one and dumped their sordid 
contents over the still, lifeless body. In the closet, she found a gallon of 
cleaning fluid. She poured it over the pile of photographs and negatives, 
lighted a match, and threw it at Bartley's leering face. As an explosion of 
flame leaped up, she ran out of the room and down the back stairs, the 
bottle of scotch clutched tightly in her hand. 

She slipped behind the wheel of the sports car, started the engine, and sped 
out of the alley. As she drove down the street, she could see the flickering 
light springing up in the second floor windows of Bartley's building. They 
grew brighter and brighter. 

She headed straight out of town, headed back to Hollywood and the safety of 
her penthouse and the world it represented. 

 CHAPTER TEN 

The telephone ring pierced through Pat's veil of sleep. She opened her eyes 
groggily and looked at the clock. It was one in the afternoon. Last night 
had been another one of those parties. She had been losing herself in them 
more and more frequently since that night, the night when.... 

She picked up the receiver. "Hello," she said, trying not to slur the word. 

"Patricia, this is Marnie Pierson. I hope I didn't wake you." 

"No, of course not. It's afternoon. I've been up for hours." Why was she 
lying to Roush's secretary? Marnie was one of the biggest party people in 
Hollywood. She was the last person Pat needed to hide from. Still, there was 
that question of her image. The studio was so picky about it. It paid her to 
be careful. 

"We just got back from Ecuador last night, and the first thing the boss 
asked me to do this afternoon was call and ask you to come in to the office 
and see him." 

"What about?" 

"I have no idea, but he acted as though it were important." Pat's temples 
began to pound, and she reached for the bottle of vodka beside the bed. She 
had put her tranquilizers somewhere last night for safe keeping, and now she 
could not remember where they were. "What time does he want to see me?" she 
asked. 

"Whenever you can get here. See you then. Good-bye, Honey." An hour later, 
Pat sat fidgeting in Stanley Roush's outer office. Someone had probably just 
reported her drinking and drug taking again, and he wanted to give her his 
standard, fatherly lecture. That was all it was, at least so she hoped. 

"Mr. Roush will see you now," chirped the blonde, heavily made up 
receptionist. The twelve foot doors to Roush's inner office slid open 
automatically, and Pat entered the huge room. The producer sprang to his 
feet from behind his immense, walnut desk and ushered her to a seat. 

"Wonderful to see you, Baby. You look great, just great. I hear your new 
picture's finished, and the boys downstairs tell me it's sure to be a big 
hit. Congratulations!" His manner was loud and expansive, too expansive, Pat 
thought to herself uncomfortably. 

"Tell me, Baby," he said, putting his hand on her knee, "Did anything 
unusual happen around here while I was away?" 

"No, not really," Pat replied guardedly. "Just the parties, like always, 
hey? You young people get invited to so many parties these days." Roush 
laughed, and his laughter sounded artificial. 

"And work. The picture took a lot of time." 

"Of course, of course. And time well spent too," the producer replied, his 
fingers squeezing into the flesh of Pat's knee. He turned suddenly serious. 
"I had some very sad news when I returned." 

Here it was, the lecture. Pat felt almost relieved. At least it was nothing 
worse. 

"Do you remember our old friend, Bartley Jonas? I believe he's the one who 
brought you to my attention, isn't that right?" 

Pat's heart skipped. "Yes, that's right," she said woodenly. "What about 
him?" 

"He was killed, quite tragically. A late night fire at his studio. It 
destroyed the place completely and him along with it. Poor guy." 

"I think I did hear something about it. I don't remember," Pat said. Was 
that all? Was the producer simply trying to share his supposed grief with 
her? "There's something more too," Roush said, his hand creeping on up Pat's 
inner thigh. "A woman came to see me, was here first thing this morning. 
She's a broken down model named Charlou or something like that. You ever 
hear of her?" 

"No, not that I can remember." Pat's heart was pounding so loudly, she 
wondered whether the producer could hear it. 

"That's funny. She claimed to be the one you posed with in that first series 
of shots Bartley took of you, the ones in which you were so, how shall I say 
it, indiscrete." 

"Oh?" 

"Yes. You'd never know it to look at her now, though. She gave me some crazy 
story about Bartley Jonas having some negatives, probably of those photos of 
the two of you. Funny, but I still have the ones I bought. They're in my 
safe. I suppose now that Bartley's gone mine are the only prints in 
existence." He grinned broadly at Pat and then went on. "This model, the one 
who came to see me, said that Bartley planned to contact you shortly before 
he died, something about selling you those negatives. Did he get in touch 
with you?" 

"No, never," Pat answered, trying to keep her voice from cracking. She could 
feel a stream of cold perspiration moving down her back. 

"I was sure you wouldn't be a party to anything like that. To keep her 
quiet, though, I gave Charlene a job, a bit part in the South American film. 
It'll take her out of the country for six months. We'll find something else 
for her after that." 

Relief swept over Pat. She was safe. Roush was protecting her. It was 
obvious that her employer knew she was lying about Bartley Jonas, but that 
did not matter. Everything was going to be all right. 

"Oh, by the way," the producer said, suddenly scowling at her, "there have 
been reports about how much carousing around you're doing. That is to stop 
at once." 

There was a finality about the man's tone that Pat did not like. This was 
not like the lectures he had given her in the past. All at once the picture 
was clear to her. 

Bartley Jonas was not the only person capable of blackmail. Stanley Roush 
had invested heavily in Patricia Norwalk, and he was going to protect that 
investment. 

"Yes, Sir," Pat replied quietly, loathing the feeling of the producer's fat 
fingers as they brushed over her crotch. 

"Good. It's nice to know we understand each other so well!" He got up and 
began loosening his belt, while Pat looked on in horrified fascination. 
"Now," he continued, "take off your clothing and lie down on your stomach. 
You and I are going to get reacquainted, the way we did that first night 
back at my beach house. I wouldn't want you to forget how it's done. After 
all, you and I are going to be working together for a long time." 


THE END
