“Hmm,” Boris thought about it, “you know, it reminds me of something . . . a fairy-tale . . .”
“Beauty and the Beast?” Tony suggested with a coarse chuckle.
“No, no, something with a more strange, dreamlike quality . . . Midsummer Night’s Dream. I mean, the whole thing could be a dream, couldn’t it—a sort of never-land sexual fantasy the girl is having . . .”
“Wow, I don’t know—it looks pretty real to me. You know, if you guys hadn’t been here, I think I’d have stroked on that one. Like I had my handkerchief all ready and everything.”
“What’d you think of it, Phil?” Boris asked the editor.
“Well . . .” Philip began, head tilting back, eyes closing for a second, voice in the nasal upper register that always successfully betrayed his Etonian-Oxford background, “I mean, it really is quite extraordinary, isn’t it? I mean, I don’t know that there exists anything one might judge it against . . . well, of course there simply doesn’t, does there? I mean, it is quite unique, isn’t it?”
“Did you find it exciting?” Boris asked, “. . . you know, sexually exciting?”
“Oh yes, indeed—extremely so. In actual fact, I found myself wondering just how one would go about restraining the audience in such a case. Well, I mean to say, aren’t they likely to become so sexually excited that some sort of . . . of orgy will develop and disrupt the entire showing?” He found the image amusing. “Perhaps if the seats were enclosed,” he went on, “each member of the audience in his own little glass box . . . in that way, one might reasonably hope to avoid sexual pandemonium. Eh? Ha-ha.”
Boris considered it. “Hmm. You know, I’m not sure that women are much affected by things like that . . . visual things. However, that’s something we shall find out—right, Tone?”
“Right, B.!” exclaimed Tone with exaggerated enthusiasm, then turned to an imaginary audience, Billy Graham style, “and to you out there tonight, I put forward the solemn pledge that, God willing, we shall cause the cherished, the sacred, the immaculately white panties of the incredibly cute and lovely ‘Miss Average Movie-Goer’ to become absolutely sopping . . . yea, be they white, pink, yellow, blue, black, beige, red, flesh, or sepia . . . be they frothy lace-edged or sweet scalloped-edged . . . latex or spandex . . . bikini, brief, or full-fashioned . . . nylon tricot, Danskin, or acetate . . . size four, five, or six . . . yea, I say unto you, even so shall they be sopping . . . and, in truth, the darling girl shall literally drown in her own precious love-juice as it surges up about her—by the end of the fan-fucking-tastic . . . show-stopping . . . SECOND REEL!” He paused for breath, and added in soft, swift urgency: “As God is my witness!”
19
LYING ON THEIR SIDES, head to foot, on the big pink satin bed beneath the rose-mirrored canopy, Feral’s head was snugly encased between Angie’s thighs, while his hands firmly cup ed her buttocks, and his tongue moved cautiously for pom-pom—unbeknownst to the pom-pom girl herself, who was similarly situated, cheek pressing against the cloth of his organ restrainer, while the “long-ago-and-far-away” glitter in her eyes reflected the double dose of liquid O-meth she had dropped for the occasion.
The first shot was from behind, with the camera on Angie’s bare back. Feral’s hands, gripping her bottom, covered the adhesive strips which secured her chastity rig, while his head moved rhythmically up and down in a tenderly voracious tongue-over-clit simulation—not yet going for full-tongue pen, nor for clit nibble-and-suck. Angie, in turn, writhed about in a quite adequate representation of increasing excitement.
For the reverse of this shot, that is to say, with the camera on Feral’s back, Boris planned to come in very tight on Angela—an extreme close-up of just her eyes and mouth. For the purpose of this shot he had persuaded her to caress an artificial penis, made of dark firm rubber. The action called for her to hold it in one hand, just at the base, while licking, kissing, and finally sucking it with growing ardor. The shot would be cropped so as not to go below her hand; in this way, it would be indiscernible that the member was, in fact, not attached to Feral’s body.
Boris was not entirely satisfied. “Christ,” he said, staring through the camera, “I can’t tell whether it looks like a real cock or not.”
“Perhaps,” Nicky Sanchez coolly observed, “that’s merely because you happen to know it isn’t real.”
“Hmm. You might be right. Looks okay to you, does it?”
“Oh heavens yes,” Nicky murmured, peering through the lens himself, “simply delectable.”
So that the two organs—Feral’s and the artificial one—would match as closely as possible, Boris had insisted that the artificial one be made from an actual mold of Feral’s penis.
Nicky, of course, had personally supervised the entire process, first taking a plaster-of-Paris impression of Feral’s organ at full rigidity, then casting it in molten Latex with a flexible metal rod at its center. It was remarkably detailed, the surface seeming to pulsate with veins and taut sinews.
“I’ll tell you where it doesn’t work,” said Boris after considering it further, “at the foreskin . . . now watch what happens when she comes all the way up on it . . . Angie, dear, just bring your mouth all the way up, okay . . . that’s it . . . now back down, slowly . . .” He turned to Nicky again, “You see, since he’s not circumcised it should pull the foreskin up just a little when her mouth reaches the end, then it should push it down a little when she takes it back in. But the trouble is, the foreskin doesn’t move on a mold. You get the contour, the definition of the foreskin, but you don’t get any movement. I mean, I had an idea for a beautiful image—where she puts her tongue under the foreskin and slowly moves it around the head. Get the picture?”
“Uh, yes,” said Nicky, huskily, “yes, I do indeed.”
“Well, we can’t do it with a mold—there’s nothing for her tongue to go under.” He sighed in frustration. “Why the hell won’t she just suck his cock for a minute or two? What’s so terrible about that?”
“I simply cannot imagine,” said Nicky arching his brows in great hauteur, “. . . the silly little goose!”
Meanwhile, Feral’s tongue was far from idle; in fact, as both Boris and Nicky could see, it had breached the periphery of the chastity rig and even now was snaking along the labes, clitoral-bound like a heat-seeking missile. As yet, Angie didn’t seem to have noticed.
“Try to ease that thing off of her,” Boris whispered to Nicky, referring to the strip of cloth, “and if that works, then we’ll take his off . . . and see what happens.”
The ruse was thwarted, however, by the excited arrival of Sid and Morty, bringing the news of Les Harrison’s escape.
“Well, just keep him out of here,” said Boris, highly annoyed at the interruption. “Listen, did you get me off the set just for that?” he demanded of Sid.
“No, B.,” said Sid gravely, “there’s something else . . . it’s about C.D.”
“Well, what is it, for Chrissake? I’m trying to shoot a scene!” He kept glancing over at the set to see what was happening.
“Tell him, Mort.”
Mort shook his head. “No, you tell him, Sid.”
Sid cleared his throat. “B.,” he said in his most serious tones, “he was . . . having sexual relations . . . with the dead . . . sexual intercourse . . . with a dead corpse.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Morty seen him. Right, Mort?”
“Right.”
“Look,” said Boris impatiently, “will you guys please get out of here?”
“But he seen him, B! I tell you, Mort seen C.D. Harrison humping a fucking corpse, for Chrissake!”
“And I’m telling you,” Boris yelled, “I don’t give a shit! Now just get out of here!” And he turned on his heel (so to speak), and strode back to the set, leaving Sid and Morty to stare dumbly after him. Sid wagged his head, clucking sadly. “Jeez,” he muttered, “seems like nobody cares about nothing anymore.”
20
&nb
sp; THE ARRIVAL OF DAVE and Debbie Roberts was not without certain fanfare—mainly due to their agent, the erstwhile Abe “Lynx” Letterman—the very same—having leaked it, rather profusely, to all media, so that on hand for their touchdown was a strong contingent, fairly representative, of their youthful and highly dedicated following. Most of them were French students, or dropouts, who had hitchhiked from Paris, or from neighboring hippy communes—and a veritable potpourri of types they were: the men, some bearded, were wearing shades and Levis, while others, with shoulder-length hair, sported extravagantly foppish attire, flower-child and neo-Edwardian style; and the cutie-pie girls, meanwhile, were doing their thing, in the Carnaby Street and Kings Road manner of no-bra, see-through blouses, bell-bottom jeans, micro hot-pants, stumble-length maxis, bare feet, granny spectacles, and garlands of daisies in their hair. Flying above them was a huge tricolor star flag of the Viet Cong, and a number of placards on sticks, variously inscribed in both French and English: “LEGALIZE ACID NOW!”, “WAR SUCKS!”, “TURN ON A FRIEND TODAY!”, “FREE KIM AGNEW!”, etc., etc., decidedly not the cleancut turnout Lynx Letter-man had hoped for—imagining, as he did, that youthful movie fans the world over were still like those of the Andy Hardy days.
So, while Debbie lay stretched across one seat, a purple sleep mask covering her eyes, Dave and Lynx sat in the seat opposite, gazing out the window at the crowd, as the plane taxied toward the Merk.
“Holy Christ, Dave,” Lynx muttered, “can’t you tell ’em to get rid of that Viet Cong flag? The press is gonna clobber us for that!”
The young man shook his head lethargically. “I can’t tell ’em nothing, daddy-O,” he mumbled, “I’m their boy. Besides, I kinda dig those V.C. cats—they sure hang in there don’t they?”
Lynx looked anxiously around the plane to make certain no one had overheard. “Now, for God’s sake, Dave, just please don’t ever say that again—not even as a joke.”
The young man smiled wearily. “That’s what you told me about pot,” he reminded him, “remember?”
Lynx grimaced. “Okay, okay, so I was wrong about pot. We’re getting some terrific PR mileage out of pot, I admit it. But that’s a fucking Viet Cong flag they’ve got out there! We’re at war with those gooks, for Chrissake!”
Dave shrugged. “I’m always for the underdog—you know, like David in ‘David and Goliath’? I mean, I dig underdogs . . . I used to be one, Lynx—remember?”
The plane made a rather abrupt left turn, and stopped. “You ain’t kiddin’, I remember!” said Lynx, leaning across the aisle to wake Debbie, with excessive gentleness, while managing to cop quite a bit of no-bra cashmered knocker and sleeping nip, without pausing in his admonition to Dave: “A year ago I couldn’t pay a studio to use you! Now you’re at the top, and that’s where I want to keep you!”
They started getting up, and the boy laughed softly, shaking his head. “Not you, daddy-O . . .” he jerked his thumb toward the crowd outside, “they’re the ones who’ll keep me at the top.”
Lynx shrugged, and nodded his head. “Okay, tiger, it’s your red wagon.”
“Hip,” said the young man, smiling and nodding agreement. And when they stepped out of the plane, he stood for a moment, one hand raised in the peace sign as he slowly turned, dispensing it toward the crowd like a papal blessing. Apart from the main group was another, smaller, more eccentric cluster of so-called Crazies, about twenty in all, flying the black flag of anarchy, and flaunting two posters: “DOWN WITH PANTS!” and “OEDIPUS SUCKS!” They were dressed colorfully, and a few were wearing crash helmets as though prepared for a riot; several of the girls were topless. Every few minutes the entire group would shriek out a series of Indian type war-whoops—like the women in Battle of Algiers—then they would jump up and down in a terrific frenzy, pogostyle, raise their clenched fists in Panther salute, and remain perfectly still, until the next outburst.
“What’s with them?” asked Lynx, his face twisted in anguished consternation.
“Doing their thing, man,” said Dave softly, and nodded to show perfect understanding.
Lynx also nodded, somewhat differently, and after just staring at the young man’s face for a second, looked away, his expression one of weary contempt. Actually, his true and heartfelt concern at the moment (and practically every other moment as well) was not with young Dave and Debbie, but with his boss, flat-top, million-a-pic client, Angela Sterling—she who had forbade him, “unconditionally,” to come to Liechtenstein, thus forcing him into this shabby, almost flagrant ruse of pretending to be there on behalf of Dave and Debbie Roberts . . . “a couple of snot-nose brats,” as he was wont to say, and—except for the odd attempt now and again to get into Debbie’s pants—he rarely thought of them at all, so convinced was he that “all this youth crap” was merely a passing fad and a quick buck, the whole thing a Madison Avenue fabrication. But his Angle, on the other hand, was like an institution—and his constant nightmare was, of course, that she would elope with a new agent at any moment—a move whereby Lynx would suffer grievously, both prestige-wise, and to the sprightly tune of about four hundred thou a year in commissions. She had defied his advice before, but never so blatantly; and she had never started work without a contract. What was even worse was their present position vis-a-vis the studio . . . in default of contract, and doubtless vulnerable to monstro court action should C.D. and the others so deign. He found himself wistfully speculating as to how much it would have strengthened their hand (his and Angie’s) if she hadn’t already been to bed with all of them. Surely, he thought, there must be one . . . single . . . major . . . stockholder . . . who hasn’t fucked her yet . . . and he sighed and sank back to begin the tedious tabulation, while the big Merk rolled toward the hotel, and Debbie Roberts, with the bright-eyed eternal astonishment which was her mark, exclaimed to her brother: “Gosh, Davey, won’t it be just too terrif seeing Angie again!”
Dave shrugged, super-cool. “Hope she’s got it all together,” he murmured, “hope she’s doing her thing.”
“Well, I just hope she’s there!” Debbie exclaimed, and turned to the agent. “Are you sure she’s still there, Lynx?”
Lynx shook his head, smiling sadly. “Seems like you can’t be sure about anything these days, kid. But we’ll soon see, won’t we?” And, saying this, he felt a genuine chill. An inveterate horse-player, with a compulsive faith in hunches, he was alarmed to feel his apprehension increasing with every turn of the Merk’s big wheels. But now it was beyond apprehension, it was a dire foreboding.
21
WHEN C.D. HAD returned to the Merk from his extraordinary assignation, he collapsed in the back seat like a burned-out long-distance runner—but one couldn’t say if he’d won or lost.
“Where to, Chief?” asked the unruffled Lips Malone.
“Just drive around for a while, Lips,” said the other, eyes not telling behind black shades, “I’ve got some production problems that need thinking through.”
After an hour or so, he designated the hotel as next stop—so he could “freshen up before dinner,” as he put it.
As he stepped from the car, he turned to Lips, who was holding the door, and tucked two carefully folded five-hundred-dollar bills into the breast pocket of Lip’s jacket.
“In the meantime,” he added, in tones of terse confidence, “you know where to find me . . . in case anything important comes up.”
“Right, Chief,” said Lips, expressionless, then raised two fingers to an imaginary cap, just the way he’d seen the British chauffeurs do in the movies.
Meanwhile, back at the pom-pom hunt, all was not well. Things had proceeded for a while exactly as Boris had projected they might. Under the sublime influence of the exotic speed-opiate, “Blue,” Angie had been oblivious to the advance of Feral’s tongue, which first achieved clit—and, after a decent interval—full vage-pen. Whatever sensations this produced in the girl, she apparently attributed to the general euphoria induced by the drug itself, because she carrie
d on, thesp-wise, as though nothing were amiss—her closed-eyed writhing and moaning exactly as before, while, at the same time, she continued to caress, kiss, and suck the artificial member, with a show of sustained and mounting passion.
When Boris saw that Feral’s tongue had scored full-pen, he whispered to Nicky: “Okay, get that thing out of the shot,” whereupon the Art Director very delicately inched off the tape securing the chastity rig, just above and below Angie’s pubis, and then gently eased the piece of cloth away, thus giving Feral-tongue immediate and profound access to the fabled pom.
“Now stay on that, Laz,” Boris whispered to the cameraman, who was shooting with a hand-held Arriflex, “. . .and then try to get her face in the same shot.”
“See if he’s got a hard-on,” he said to Nicky after a minute, not wanting to leave the camera himself. “Oh, I’d be delighted to,” the other trilled in extreme camp, gliding balletlike to that side of the bed, and having ascertained it, arched his brows as in exaggerated astonishment: “Oh, Mary, has he ever!”
“Okay, Laz,” said Boris, “let’s try this side.”
They quickly moved around the bed to where closed-eyed Angie was sucking the rubber org. At a sign from Boris, Nicky deftly unfastened Feral’s restraint, allowing his erect member to bob up, jack-in-the-box style.
“Yummy, yummy, yummy,” Nicky cooed.
“Okay, Laz,” Boris whispered, “be ready, because this may not last long.” Then he bent over and whispered to Angie: “Don’t open your eyes, Angie, we’re still shooting . . . it’s beautiful . . . I just want to try a different one for a minute . . . I think it may be better . . .” and while he spoke he held the artificial org with one hand, and Feral’s with the other, easing the one out and the other in, even before he finished—in an extremely graceful transition which caused Angie, still closed-eyed to go: “Hmmm . . .” as in sleepy contentment.
“There, isn’t that better?” asked Boris softly, at the same time stepping back out of the shot and forcefully gesturing for Laz to get a move on.
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