“Thank you.”
“Maybe you can add a sub-plot, like at the end she goes back home and has a confrontation with her wealthy father, makes him start paying the migrant farmers more money.”
“She gets her brain sucked out on page forty-three.”
“Oh,” Monty said, “right. Well, that’s fine too.”
“And we’ll do the scene with the other two topless girls lost in the attic where the ghost of the insane eighteenth-century vicar is about to get them.”
“They’re not topless in that scene, Monty.”
He grabbed the script from me, turned to the scene, pulled out a pen, and wrote in the words naked bobs.
“Naked bobs?”
He wrote in another “o” making it naked boobs. “There, that ought to do it. Anyway, the shoot shouldn’t take more than the afternoon.”
I hadn’t been in Hollywood that long and still didn’t know my way around the business much, but I had a feeling that Monty wasn’t following so-called established channels.
I heard a car pull up in the driveway and Monty let out a giddy laugh that sort of scared me. I didn’t mind him being sleazy but when he got silly I feared that anything could happen.
“Here are our sorority babes,” he said. “Don’t worry, they’re all over eighteen.”
They sure were. Two women walked in. The youngest one was forty-two and kept showing everybody photos of her first grandchild. I recognized both of them as models in men’s magazines who’d been on the downslide for two decades. I had a nostalgic tug, remembering that I’d first beat off to layouts of these ladies twenty-five years earlier. I offered them some pie.
Monty handed out the scripts and the middle-aged sorority babes sat back and studied their roles.
Then Lauren St John walked in and I nearly dropped my lemon meringue.
Lauren St John had been one of the fantasy women of my youth. I’d seen her in Doreen Does Newark and Indiana Bone and the Temple of Cum Sluts and I’d flogged myself into a bloody little puddle. Over the past few years she’d worked her way into B thrillers and grade-Z horror flicks. She was closing in on fifty and looked barely a year or two older than when she’d taken on three foot-long schlongs in Temple. I was intimidated as hell, horny as fuck, and even sort of star struck, wondering if I should ask for her autograph.
Her tits were 42DDs at least and she did this thing where she clapped them around a guy’s face until he was almost unconscious. I remembered the protruding thumb-thick nipples and how men and women had suckled on her through her films. Her blouse had the top three buttons opened and I could see the beautiful curves of her tanned breasts and the beginning of a huge black lace bra. My breathing hitched and I started to hiss through my teeth.
The long fiery hair had dimmed to a smoky brown. There were lines in that lovely face but there were lines in everybody’s face. I wasn’t thirty yet and had more gray hair than my father did at sixty. Her body still looked wonderful beneath a pleated business suit. It was such a dichotomy to what I was used to seeing that I found it even more sexy than if she’d showed up in a bikini. She turned a white smile on me that glowed with sincere affability. It was so beautiful that it nearly brushed me back a step. She held her hand out and said, “Hello, I’m Lauren.”
“Hi, I’m Thomas.”
Monty rushed over holding a diving suit and a mask covered in plastic tubes and elastic hoses. “The hell is this?” I asked.
“Your Zypho suit.”
“My Zypho suit?”
“Well, somebody’s got to wear it. I’m the cameraman so you get to be the monster. Get down to your skivvies and I’ll help you on with it.”
“Excuse me,” I said to Lauren St John. Monty ushered me into the bathroom. He’d been busy in here cleaning up, I noticed. The tiles had been scrubbed, the glass doors to the stall were sparkling and the tub shined. A large jar of bubble bath sat on the counter. A citrus scent pervaded the shower.
“Damn, Monty, I didn’t know you could clean like this when you wanted to. And you break my ass for baking?”
“All right, so I was a little anxious, but the bathroom needs to be clean for Lauren’s tub scene. Christ, man, those tits are gonna make us a million bucks!” He plugged the drain and let the water run.
I undressed and climbed into the alien outfit. It was a tight-fitting rubber getup that zipped up in the back and was way too tight. I could barely move at all and after Monty strapped the mask on me I couldn’t see much either. I clunked around the bathroom waiting for Monty to help me out of there when I realized that he was gone and Lauren was in there with me.
“Are you okay, Thomas?” she asked.
“Uhm, well – actually –”
She took her skirt off, her blouse, and folded her clothes neatly and placed them on the counter beside her purse. My cock tried to spring to attention but the suit was so tight that it was like trying to get hard against a brick wall. It hurt like fuck, but I didn’t mind much as Lauren slowly slid her bra off her shoulders. My Christ. Those beautiful tremendous tits fell free and I gulped so loudly it sounded like a gunshot. They were creamy and luscious and perfect to behold, with enough bounce that as she turned they swung low and rose again as she breathed, brushing us back.
She drifted over and stood in the tub and I was shocked at how beautiful she still was. Lauren grabbed the bubble bath crystals and dumped half the jar into the bath. She got in and sat and began soaping her immense tits. They were still so firm that you could put a pencil under them and it wouldn’t stick.
Monty ran back in with the DV camera in one hand, holding an arc lamp in the other. “You’re Zypho, critter from beyond the edge of space!”
“Monty—”
“Now go on, get in the tub and feel her up with your tentacles of unholy love.”
“Monty, I can barely see anything.”
“What’s to see? Wave your arms around . . . wait, we have to set this up here . . . we’ve got to get your tentacles into her nostrils for the brain-sucking scene.”
“Holy Jesus Christ.”
I waved my arms wildly around and pretended to attack Lauren St John and slurp her brain out of her head. I felt certain I was trapped in an Ed Wood movie – in a flick struggling to be as good as an Ed Wood movie – and that Tor Johnson was about to swing his bald rounded body toward me any second. My legacy to the world was going to be Zypho from the planet Anianibr and it left a black depression gnawing in my chest. The only saving grace was that Lauren was so sexy I was starting to get a woody even through the rubber suit.
“Hey, what’s the matter?” she asked.
“What?”
“You tensed up.”
“Oh, sorry. I think I’m feeling a tad embarrassed.”
“Perfect!” Monty shouted. “It’s a print. A little editing and we’re good to go. Great job, you two!” He rushed out and I slumped forward, too despondent to do much more than lay there.
She moved beneath me and my hard-on kicked up into high gear. Even if I didn’t have a foot-long schlong it got her attention.
I couldn’t help myself any longer. I put my hand on her left tit and hoped she wouldn’t scream. Even ex-porno starlets can get offended. It was like reaching out and touching paradise. Huge and soft enough to hold up my weight. I prayed she wouldn’t scream rape or grab a can of mace out of her purse. I kneaded the areola and toyed with that nipple and grunted where I lay on top of her.
So my hand was on her tit and I couldn’t stop thinking of the cops breaking in and sending me up to share ten years with a cell mate named Bubba Raul. It was a precarious situation.
“Uhm,” I said.
“It’s all right,” she told me. “Just take these plastic things out of my nose.”
“Oh, sorry.”
I tried pulling the mask off but it was connected at the back of the neck to the body suit. “Can you get the zipper down?”
“No, it’s stuck.”
“Shit. There’s no hole in
the suit.”
“You can’t get it out?”
“God damn.”
“Can you reach my purse?”
I lurched blindly, managed to find the purse, and handed it to her. She rummaged around for a second and came out with a box-cutter that I could see even through the pinhole-sized punctures I had to look through.
“Jesus Christ! What’s that for?”
“Protection. I live in East Hollywood too.” She drew out the blade and then kneeled in front of me.
“The fuck are you doing?”
“I’m going to make a slit in this rubber.”
“For Christ’s sake be careful!”
“I will.”
Suddenly her hand snaked in. I was down to about a quarter-mast, but I thought that was pretty good considering the circumstances.
“It’s all right,” she said.
“Look, I’m not about to make the mistake of thinking that adult actresses are any more promiscuous than anybody else, so—”
“Are you really this cute and embarrassed or are you just pretending?”
I thought about it. “No, I’m really this cute. Well, under the suit anyway.”
My breathing became ragged and I knew it wasn’t just because of the ten pounds of rubber mask around my head.
Lauren hiked her knees up. I leaned into her, plunging inside so easily that it almost startled me. “That’s it, Thomas,” she whispered.
“God yes.”
“Oh, Thomas.”
I liked her using my name. It gave me a warm hitch under my heart.
“Can you see me at all?” she asked.
“I can feel you.”
“This is the first time I’ve ever fucked a creature from outer space,” she whispered.
It wasn’t the truth. I’d seen her hump some guy in a costume almost as ridiculous as mine in Alien Anal Attack fifteen years ago. I didn’t blame her for not remembering.
She kept our movements slow, rocking lightly as I pushed harder. She was wonderfully tight and had great muscular control. Her tits floated atop the suds and kept pointing at me. She reached beneath the water and raised them high, pointing those giant nipples at the eye-holes in the mask. She poked at me with them and then started doing the thing where she swung them hard and let them loose. I grunted and fucked her savagely, groaning with the heat and the fact that I was going at it with one of my ultimate fantasies. Her tits bounced wildly and slugged me in the forehead, the shoulder, the jaw, really letting me have it as she squealed and cried, “That’s it, keep at it!”
Like I would stop. She gasped as I kept at her, finding the rhythm and enjoying how her tits bounced each time I rammed her. Soon she began trembling beneath my body. Lauren clung to me and drew her nails across Zypho’s rubber chest. I reached under her ass, grabbed her hips and pulled her further onto me until I was embedded as deeply as I could go. She grunted at the force of my penetration and said, “That’s it, Thomas.” Whoever would’ve thought that hearing your own name would be such a turn on? Lauren climaxed again, shuddering so hard that I heard her elbows crack.
I felt my own climax coming on. She did too and urged me on, whispering, “That’s it, that’s it, like that, yes.” She growled a little and it drove me nuts and she kept slapping me with her tits and I was every stud she’d ever fucked on film. She let me be the best and I was so thankful I tried kissing her through the mask. I held on to her nipples like two joysticks as I rode her until I creamed.
She froze for a moment and said, “What’s that sound? That yowling.”
I still had lights dancing along the edges of my vision. “What? Uh, those are the cats next door stuck in the pomegranate tree again.”
I gave her three or four more shoves and then came, letting her milk me and I quivered and shook. I rested atop that chest and never wanted to leave. She held me for a while, worked at the zipper, and finally managed to get me out of it.
“What a workout,” she said. “But I’m not done yet.”
Already I was at half-mast again. “Neither am I.”
“Where’s your room?”
“Around back. Let me check on Monty first and then—”
“Then I want to look at your face when I fuck you until you pass out.”
“Oh boy.”
It sounded like a fine plan to me. We got dressed and left the bathroom and sat on the couch together, chatting about films and our lives and feeding each other slices of pie. We made out for a while until I realized Monty and the other sorority babes had been missing for a long time.
We went upstairs to find out what had happened on the rest of the shoot.
I’d been wrong. That yowling hadn’t been the cats that time. Monty and the two actresses has been doing something pretty funky and unholy up in the attic. All three were in a daze and it looked like Monty’s left shoulder had been tugged out of the socket. It was a good thing he was double-jointed. He popped it back in. His cellphone rang.
I said, “It’s probably Ed Wood calling to tell us that we’ve bumped Plan 9 From Outer Space as the worst movie ever.”
Monty got a faraway look in his eyes and said, “Wouldn’t that be something?”
This Hurts Me More Than It Hurts You
Stephanie Schaeffer
I was in college the first time a man asked me to spank him. It was in the dorms at Columbia. I was fooling around with a sophomore after consuming quite a bit of alcohol, and as soon as we got naked he handed me an ordinary leather belt and told me to hit him across the butt with it.
“Really?” I asked him. “Are you serious?”
“Please,” he said. He rolled over and presented his ass.
I was coming down. I had a headache and needed to pee. “I can’t do this,” I told him. I got up, used the toilet and washed my face and when I returned he was passed out on his roommate’s futon.
But oddly enough, even though the initial thought of it had repulsed me, over the years it became the thing I fantasized about the most. Spanking. Not being spanked, but being the spanker. I liked to fantasize about spanking men.
With each rotation of my hips, I’d visualize applying an enthusiastic hand to the eager behind of some deserving date. Tantalizing my swollen clit with a lubed finger, I’d picture different implements – the back of a hairbrush, a leather paddle, a thin birch rod – until I settled on the one that was most stimulating. I’d also imagine various guys: my last e-date, some hot movie celebrity, that sophomore in college and how differently things could have gone if I’d just smacked him with his belt like he’d asked. Now, envisioning some beau’s blushing cheeks never failed to bring me to climax.
An ex-boyfriend of mine, Elliot, started making a regular appearance in my spanking fantasies of late. A typical Elliot fantasy progressed as follows: while rubbing myself tentatively through my thin cotton panties, I visualized the faces Elliot used to make when fucking, only in my imagination he was making them while I spanked him. Then, I’d plunk his sore ass down in a chair and suck his dick. At this point my underwear was down around my knees, thumb circling my clit with fervor. As my fantasy self straddled him and fucked him until he came screaming, my thighs would be pressed around my hand, urgently squeezing the finger up my pussy as I came along with him.
I hadn’t thought about Elliot in a sexual way since before we broke up last year. It was that old cliché of us being at different points in our lives. I was in my mid-twenties and had just started graduate school. Elliot, at 31, had recently co-founded a small computer consulting start-up. He was putting in long hours at the company. It was his baby, his anchor, his sweat and blood, and his availability was limited. Our courtship consisted of 15-minute coffee dates at odd hours of the day whenever he could fit them into his agenda. He was a proficient lover, particularly adept at oral sex, but only when he could find the time, which was scarcely once a week.
We’d had an amicable split. By the time he mustered up the courage to feed me the “I don’t have the time f
or a relationship right now” line, I’d already gotten involved with a fellow graduate student at the university who had more time on his hands and shared my interest in Kierkegaard.
I still ran into Elliot quite often at my favorite study spot, The Local Mocha. His office was nearby and he stopped there morning and night for his caffeine fix. We’d become friends, of sorts, having a coffee together from time to time. I’d taken up with the online dating scene after Rolf, the grad student, had moved to Minnesota to pursue a community college teaching opportunity, and Elliot always liked hearing about my most recent romantic escapades. He laughed at my stories of stand-ups, one-night stands, and threesomes gone awry. I thought it was his way of living vicariously.
Elliot hadn’t dated anyone for a while, but recently he’d begun seeing Kara, an emaciated, elongated 19-year-old with fuchsia hair and modeling aspirations. I was surprised by his choice but didn’t say anything. Our conversations mostly centered on his work and my bad dates.
Now Elliot had started showing up in my fantasies and all this masturbation was getting in the way of my school work. It was a Monday night. The lit review I had procrastinated on all weekend and just barely finished was due at 8:30 a.m. the next morning. My printer, I had just discovered, was all out of ink.
With a frustrated sigh, I popped the disc out of the drive and headed off on foot to the copy place near The Local Mocha. When I got there, the storefront was dark. I glanced at the posted hours. 9 a.m.–9 p.m.
“Fuck,” I said, aloud.
“Problem?” It was Elliot. I wondered momentarily what he was doing there until I remembered he’d told me his office space was on the block. He had a Local Mocha to-go cup in his hand, probably his usual double espresso.
“I have to print out this paper for class tomorrow, I’m all out of ink and this place is closed,” I said.
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