by Paul Kenyon
Mitch was breathing hard, too. She looked down through the water, between his legs, and saw the stiff harpoon standing out there. She reached down and began to lather it for him.
He groaned, and touched her between the legs. She gasped at the sudden pleasure of the contact. It was getting slippery down there, and it wasn't the soap. Mitch rubbed her clitoris with the ball of his thumb. He kept up a steady circular motion until she thought she'd go mad with the shivering ravishment of it. Then his thick thumb was three inches inside her water-filled grotto, moving around the slickness of its inner surface. She moaned. Her hand tightened convulsively on his penis, holding it like a stanchion. His thumb continued to wiggle, and simultaneously she felt his forefinger probing between the firm hemispheres of her buttocks. His finger stroked the tender cleft. Thumb and finger moved toward one another, imprisoning the fleshly partition in a gentle pincer grip. Her legs writhed involuntarily. The tip of his finger was resting on her anus, a feather touch. She trembled on the verge of an explosion.
His cock slipped out of her slithery grasp. It interrupted the mesmerized working of his hand just in time. He was breathing raggedly too, his face dark and flushed. He kicked against the rim of the pool, pushing his back against the marble. He pulled her into his lap. They were pressed against one another spoon fashion now, her buttocks hard against his loins. Her shoulder-blades dug into his chest. He reached a brawny arm around her and trapped one of the heavy breasts that were floating outward from her body in the buoyant water. The water gave her a delicious weightless feeling. His other hand came around, cradling her other breast. The nipple popped out between two fingers. He pulled the swollen bud in and out gently.
With a sob she reached between her legs and found his rigid member. It throbbed in her hand. She thrust it deep, deep within her. Instantly he began to move it in and out, in the age-old reflex. She could feel it sliding back and forth inside her pulsing scabbard. She made little rhythmic mewing sounds. She was going to come; she could feel it now. She squeezed his legs between her knees to hold him steady and bent forward at the waist to get it deeper inside her. He pressed himself frantically against her. She pushed back as hard as she could. His cock pushed into her an inch farther. Its thick root was spreading her labia apart. She gave a great shudder, and convulsed in a huge bubbling spasm that went on and on and on.
When she came out of it, Mitch was pushing at her, trying to get her off him. He was sputtering and blowing like a porpoise.
"You almost drowned me."
She lifted herself off his stem and splashed down beside him. "I'm sorry, darling. Did you make it?"
"Did I make it. Wow, did I make it!" He pointed to something that looked like a jellyfish floating on a current toward the drain. It had a volume of at least ten cubic centimeters. She was impressed.
She climbed out of the pool and dried herself off. They had a goblet of wine together. Penelope said, "Feeling recovered, darling?"
For answer, he took her by the wrist and put her hand on his tool. It hardened and lifted almost instantaneously.
She bumped hips with him and put an arm around him, resting her hand on his belly. Holding his instrument like a scepter, she marched him toward the Imperial bed.
"Morning's a long way off, darling," she said. "Think we have time for a Roman orgy?"
* * *
Sully crouched behind the bulk of the Ultra Panavision camera, squinting through the viewfinder at the scene below. It was clear and undistorted through the one-way glass of the fake mirror. There was just enough light, with the fast film he was using.
They were on the circular bed now, ready for another round. He stared greedily at the Baroness' melon-round breasts, at the sleek curve of her belly, hips and thighs. Her legs parted, and Mitch stuck it into her again. Sully squirmed like a puppy. His own little red frankfurter was sticking straight out through his open fly; the discomfort would have been intolerable otherwise. He twisted the long lens mounting, opening the aperture to its fullest. The blimped motor ran with hardly a whisper.
Beside him in the cramped space, Snips was almost weeping with joy.
"Beautiful, Sully, beautiful," he whispered hoarsely. "The eating scene… it'll be like something out of Tom Jones, with a few intercuts. And the wreath on his head… perfect! And the way he pranged her in the pool…"
Sully grunted, sharpening the focus to follow the action on the bed.
"It looks like they're gonna be at it all night. We'll get all the footage we need. That means we can get right into the death scene tomorrow."
Chapter 14
They came streaming in by the hundreds from the desert, escorted by tight-lipped gunmen who met them at the temporary reception area, then went back for another batch. The interviews were conducted in a trailer a few miles off the highway, and the ones who looked all right were sent on.
Skytop sat watching them, his feet up on the camera cross-brace, having an early morning beer with the crew. They poured down the street like refugees, past the ramshackle wooden buildings, heading for the Colosseum. There were long-haired youths in flares and old men with dyed hair who were trying to look jaunty; there were the tough painted women in their forties and fifties and the hookers and the young vacant-faced chicks trying to look like Marilyn Monroe or Mia Farrow. There were the muscle men and the freaks, the stunt men and the animal trainers, the exhibitionists, the dwarfs and the acrobats and the giants.
"I never knew there were so many people around who were willing to take their clothes off in front of a camera," Skytop said.
"You gotta understand, there are a lot of twilight people around L.A.," said the gaffer. He was a simian-faced man in a sweat-stained work shirt and a baseball cap. His name was Otto, and he fancied himself a philosopher.
Skytop sipped his Coors. "I can understand the hookers and the weirdos, but a lot of those people look like the same crowd that shows up for the open calls at the studios. Union cards and everything."
Otto shrugged. "They think this is still show business. And maybe they're right. It's almost legit. They know all the stories that go around about the big-time directors and stars who started out in porno."
"They must have been filled in about The Golden Ass when they were screened at the trailer. About the scene where Sully wants the spectators at the Colosseum to have a bacchanal. Thousands of people in the stands, all screwing at once in 65mm Panavision."
"Look. Most of that bunch out there have already been in a skin flick. You'd be surprised. Or they've peddled their ass. Or they're on drugs. They'll do anything to survive. They're waiting for their big break." He laughed. "They think maybe somebody's gonna notice them."
"How long you been with Sully, Otto?"
"About eight years. Same as Max." His little eyes flickered maliciously. "I hear you broke up Max real bad."
Skytop put down his beer and got to his feet. There was someone in the flowing crowd he recognized. "Hey, Amber!" he yelled.
The girl looked up and waved. She came hurrying over. Wardrobe had fitted her out as a slave girl, in a flimsy tunic that left one breast bare.
"Hey, Joe, I see you made it!"
"I see you did, too."
She laughed. "Yeah. I'm a Christian. They're gonna throw me to the lions."
He said nothing. He'd heard enough guarded talk among Sully's crew to have surmised what was going to happen with the Christians and the lions.
She misread his silence. "Hey, Joe, I'm sorry about — you know. About what happened at the hotel room. When they came and took you away."
"Why? It wasn't your fault."
She avoided his eyes. She blushed all the way down to the exposed breast.
"I see. You fingered me," Skytop said.
"They said they wouldn't hurt you. And they offered me this part. Besides, it all worked out for the best, didn't it?"
"Sure it did, kid."
"That's what I mean," she said, cheerful now. "Hey, wow, I better go. They're setting up
my scene now."
She joined the crowd of extras streaming into the Colosseum. Just before she entered the arch, she turned around and waved at him.
Skytop clenched his big fist helplessly. There was nothing he could do alone. They were watching him. The hoods with the shotguns, dressed now as centurions in case they got in the camera's way, were never far from him. The nightmare that Sully had invented was about to begin. Where was the Baroness?
* * *
The Baroness stood in chains, watching the arena through an iron grate. They'd dressed her in a diaphanous white gown, sheer enough to show dark patches of nipples and a shadowy triangle at her groin. Her black hair was piled on top of her head and fastened with gold pins. Her face was stunningly beautiful; the makeup man had done her eyes and lips with as much care as if she were posing for the cover of Vogue.
All around her there was the sound of weeping. A score of chained girls in flowing white costumes stared through the grate, terror on their faces. They'd seen what happened to the first batch of extras sent out into the arena.
The crowd in the stands was subdued, too. They hadn't been expecting anything like this. But Sully was getting a good performance out of them whenever the cameras were grinding. The brutal-looking men in centurions' costumes had waded through the crowd, weeding out the less enthusiastic ones. After a few of these had been thrown into the arena, the rest of the crowd had learned their lesson. Nobody left. And everybody cooperated.
"Oh God!" said the girl behind her, her teeth chattering. "I don't believe it! I don't believe it's really happening!" She was about twenty, with a smooth doll's face and an overripe figure. She wore a white tunic that left one breast exposed.
"It's happening, all right," said the Baroness grimly.
"Those lions ate those people! They tore them apart and ate them!"
"Take it easy, Amber honey," the Baroness said.
"And the girl who got raped by the leopard! I knew her! I used to see her at Schwab's!"
The Baroness said nothing. Amber's friend wouldn't be having any more sodas at Schwab's. When the leopard was through with her, her shoulders and back had been bloody ribbons from the sharp dew claws. The animal had dug in, holding her neck in his jaws, when she screamed and tried to move away. She was still alive when the trainer had coaxed the animal away. So a man dressed as a gladiator had hacked her to death with a sword, while the cameras ground.
A pudgy figure hurried toward them across the bloodstained sand. It was Sully Flick, looking almost dapper in sunglasses and beret, wearing a maroon blazer with SF embroidered in gold on the breast pocket. He stopped in front of the crowd of sacrificial virgins.
"Hey, I got good news for you girls," he said. "The lions are sluggish. They got too much to eat. You're off the hook. For today's shooting, anyway."
One of the virgins was having hysterics. The girls chained to her on either side tried to calm her down.
"Sully," the Baroness said quietly, "you'll never see the rushes. You're going to die first."
"Sure, kiddo," he said cheerfully. "Hey, I saved out one lion for you. That's what I come over to tell you. Big mean hungry bastard. They were gonna put him away after he mauled a model at a convention. I got him cheap. You're gonna play a solo scene with him."
The centurions were unlocking the leg chains that bound her to Amber. It was odd, seeing plumed helmets instead of fedoras above those hatchet faces. They all had short swords swinging at their hips, but what really made them dangerous was the shotguns half-concealed under the red cloaks.
"Listen, Baroness," Sully said, almost pleadingly. "You're gonna die anyway, right? So why not put on a good show? We can get some great stuff on film. It's your big chance. Run around, when we let the lion out. Make him chase you. Act frantic, you know what I mean? And when he catches you, try to keep your face turned toward the camera. So we can see the facial expressions, you know?"
"I'll do what I can," she said dryly.
They led her out, pulling roughly at the wrist chains. The crowd went wild. They rose to their feet and gave a vast bloodthirsty howl, as they'd been instructed to do. A couple of women fainted. It all went on film.
One of the centurions faced the royal box and raised his sword. He was dedicating this particular victim to the emperor. Penelope looked up. Mitch was sitting there, a laurel wreath around his head. He was chained to his seat, she knew. But you couldn't see the chains.
Mitch stuck out his tongue, made an idiot's face. He was trying to spoil it for Sully. But it didn't matter. They'd keep a camera on him and just cut in the frames they wanted.
Her eyes traveled to the principal camera on its high boom. That was Joe Skytop up there, riding it. They hadn't used him for any of the other sado scenes. It probably appealed to Sully's sense of humor to have Skytop be the cameraman who shot her death.
The camera boom began to ride higher, the long lens pointing down at her like a finger. The gladiators began to shuffle out of the arena. There were trident-and-net men, and the secutores with the flaring helmets and one arm covered by chain mail, and the dimachae with a short sword in either hand. One of the net men, she saw, was the muscled giant they called Iron Man.
A lion roared from behind a barred gate in the wall. The centurions were acting nervous. They'd run like hell, she knew, once they unlocked her wrist chains.
They twisted her roughly to face the gate. One of them reached for her wrist.
And there was a shadow across the sand, and something huge was swooping over her head.
It was Skytop, riding the camera boom. It swiped sideways, like a giant's slap, and bowled over the centurion who was reaching for her. It came round again and sent another centurion tumbling.
Dear Joe Skytop! Nobody had told him it was hopeless!
One of her guards let go of the chain and raised the shotgun under his cloak. She swung the end of the chain and caught him across the face with it. The shotgun went off with a roar.
"Don't shoot, don't shoot!" came an hysterical voice. It was Sully, running toward them across the sand. "You'll damage the camera!"
The Baroness pulled on the other chain. The centurion who was holding it came with it. She met him with a knee in the groin. He wasn't wearing anything under the tunic. That was his tough luck.
Skytop leaped down from the camera boom like an avenging god and flung himself on a centurion who was trying to club the Baroness. He took the shotgun away and broke it like a matchstick. Then he picked the man up and threw him at an advancing gladiator.
The Baroness flailed away with the chains like a twin windmill, her hair flying and her breasts quivering. There were cries of pain as the heavy links broke faces and smashed knuckles. After a while, they realized they didn't have to come near her. They surrounded her in a cautious ring, shotguns pointed at her, giving way whenever she made a rush at the encircling wall.
Skytop was fighting his way toward her when Iron Man flung his weighted fishnet.
The net settled down gracefully over Skytop's head and shoulders. He fought it. Fighting only entangled him more securely. The heavy butt of a lance caught him on the side of the head. He fell to the sand, still struggling. Iron Man put a sandaled foot on him and knocked him flat. He lifted the trident and put its prongs against Skytop's throat.
"You musclebound nance!" Skytop roared. "Let me out of this thing and I'll tear you apart!"
"One move!" Iron Man said. "One move and this pitchfork goes right through you!"
Sully came up, puffing hard. "Was the camera damaged?"
"It's okay, Sully," one of the gladiators said.
Sully looked down at Skytop. He kicked him in the ribs. "Okay, Skytop, so now we know where we stand. You were on the wrong side of the camera, buddy."
He pushed his way through the circle surrounding Penelope. She stood like a wild creature at bay, eyes flashing, teeth bared. Around her were half a dozen injured men in Roman costume. One hugged his privates and cried like a baby. Another rolle
d on the sand screaming, his eyes taken out by the deadly chain.
"Keerist, will you look at that!" Sully yelled. "You ruined your makeup job!" He turned to the knot of uninjured centurions. "Listen to me. If the bitch makes one bad move, blow her apart."
The centurions approached her warily and grabbed the ends of the chains. There were six or seven of them, hanging on for dear life, like handlers holding down a berserk elephant.
"Okay," Sully said. "Okay. Start the scene over again. And this time we do it right."
* * *
The Baroness leaned forward against her chains, watching the gate. The lion was hurling himself against the bars, roaring with rage. He was a big brute, probably weighing a good four hundred and fifty pounds. When they raised the gate, he'd have about seventy-five feet to cover before he could get to her.
The crowd waited. A great hush fell over the arena.
The three Ultra Panavision cameras loomed on their gantries, ready to catch the action from every possible angle. Sully had explained the economics of it to her: they were going to burn up more than $2000 worth of film in the next nine minutes. He was hoping the lion would finish with her in nine minutes, because that was how long a thousand-foot roll of 65mm film lasted.
He couldn't expect the animal to take a five-minute break while they reloaded.
The four sweating centurions who were holding onto her watched the lion nervously. They didn't like this. They didn't like it at all.
There must have been some sort of signal from Sully. The man playing the commanding officer took a step forward and faced her sternly. He unrolled a scroll.
"Morieris," he read. "Christianus es. Hostis de civitas es. Meretrix perfida es."
He was reading the charges. A long boom microphone caught his words.