“I thought you’d like that,” she whispers, her lips grazing my ear. I shudder with secret, quiet desire. “Your tits are beautiful, Arielle. People pay thousands to get their breasts to look just like yours.”
“They’re real,” I tell her, trying to feign a normal conversation.
She flickers her pinkie seductively on one erect, rosy nipple. “Yes, I know, I can always tell.”
Her hands have moved back to my shoulders and neck as she continues her soft touch. She’s running the very tips of her fingers along the base of my hairline – my hair is pinned up in a messy bun. Shivers tingle through my entire body.
“I’m not gay you know, Valentina,” I blurt out, trying to convince myself that this has nothing to do with me. I am an innocent bystander in all this!
“No,” she murmurs, “of course not, but who’s going to arrest you, huh? Just relax, I’m just giving you a little massage, that’s all. You’re holding in a lot of tension.”
She begins to brush my neck with her lips with whispery kisses and then her fingers are back on my nipples again. I feel the need build up inside me. Being with Max has awoken my sexual appetite, a yearning for orgasms, and now is no exception. She’s getting me worked up. Her hand moves under the water now, searching between my thighs. My breath gasps in anticipation. I don’t want her to stop... yet this is...wrong!
My conscious mind wants to tell her to leave me be, but I can’t, I’m simply too turned-on. Her finger taps my clit gently making me flex my hips. I want more and she can sense that. Oh yes, she can sense it alright. She presses her palm flat on my pussy, and the pressure of it has me moving up against her hand. She makes circular motions almost imperceptibly but it’s just enough to feel myself throb as if my heartbeat were right down there. With the other hand she tugs at my nipple, kneading it softly between her fingers. She slips her index finger from her right hand inside my slick opening, continuing with the pressure on my clit.
“I’m not gay,” I repeat, sensations unspooling, my hips grinding on her hand in a ripple of carnal desire, “but this does...aah...oh yeah...feel...so...good.”
“Doesn’t it? Your pussy’s so sweet, Arielle, I’d like to flicker my tongue against your clit.” She presses her hand harder on my purring pussy, and I feel myself come in a thunderous pound. My back arches as I rock my hips forward pushing on her hand – the orgasm pulsates deep inside me, her finger still there exploring my G-spot, making the double-sensation linger and flutter in waves of orgasmic bliss.
“The best way to relieve tension is through climax,” she says quietly. “If you ever have a migraine, you know what to do.”
Sensations of shameful bliss are still pulsing through me, my clit tingling with aftershocks, the base of me beautifully released. I am not a lesbian! How has this happened? “Valentina, this was a one-off. I can’t let this happen again.”
But she just laughs. “Don’t be so serious, Arielle. It’s just a release, that’s all. Your body needed it.”
“I’m not going to reciprocate,” I warn her. I can’t see her expression as she’s behind me, but I can imagine it. I have a picture in my mind’s eye of a cool smirk etched across her beautiful face.
And it scares me.
No woman has touched me like this. Ever.
And I’m shocked at how I responded with so much desire.
I AWAKE TO THE SOUND of the Skype ring on my iPad and hazily turn on my side. I didn’t have any nightmares last night, I had night mares, or should I say, a night of mares. No stallions. I dreamed about females – beautiful breasts, slender long legs. This is crazy! Still, I guess it’s better that visions of women erase the grotesque, panting images of what was there before.
Ugh, I can’t even think about it.
I unlock my tablet. It’s Max.
I quietly recount my adventure yesterday evening – I’m wondering if he’ll be as delighted as he said he’d be. Perhaps he might get jealous.
But no – jealousy doesn’t seem to hold a place with him when a woman is involved. He responds huskily, “If my plane wasn’t about to take off right now, I’d want a full recount of every single, tiny, sexy detail, and I’d pleasure myself while you recounted each horny moment. I swear to God you’ve got me all worked up thinking about it.”
I can hear the jet’s engines roaring in the background. “I’m not proud of what I did,” I say tentatively. “It just sort of....unfolded. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
“Arielle, have some fun, don’t take it all so seriously.”
I freeze. Isn’t that exactly what she said? “I have something really important to tell you. Something that’s been responsible for my bad dreams....hello?...Max?”
The line’s gone dead. I call him back on both Skype and his cell number. Nothing.
I roll out of bed and amble to the bathroom. I miss Max. It strikes me that all I really want to do is be with him and Prince, cozy together watching a movie or a walk in the park. Work used to be so important to me but now less so. I mull over the ‘lady of leisure’ fantasy he sold me yesterday, lying by the beach, reading novels. Or the pair of us escaping to Thailand and living in a tree house – leaving the ‘real’ world behind. Usually when you cook up a fantasy it’s unattainable, but for us it could be a reality. A sweet thought. But the Devil makes work for idle hands, doesn’t he?
With this in mind I shower quickly, get myself ready, and set off for work in my outrageous low and vast, powder blue Cadillac that feels like a ship. I swing by my favorite smoothie stall, feeling cruel that I blamed it for my ‘food poisoning.’ In a few hours I’ll be able to speak to Max and we can have a long talk. I want to get these dreams off my chest, I want to lay it all open – I’m sick of harboring this secret.
As I cruise along Pacific Coast Highway, sipping my strawberry smoothie, I wonder if I could adapt to this city – smoothies, the ocean, palm trees swaying in a warm breeze, beautiful people everywhere – what isn’t there to love?
This is my last day with Valentina – our last day working on the script. I have to admit that it’s been fun, but right now the last thing I need is the possibility of more complications. It was a highly pleasurable one-off experience in the bathtub, but I mustn’t let her have her seductive way again. Watch out Arielle, be on your guard.
It’s cooler today, so we write inside. We settle in the living room, which is an extension of her open-plan kitchen. The place is decorated with Navajo hand-woven rugs and an eclectic mix of oil paintings that are copies of Klimt and Frida Kahlo. There’s a wood-burning stove in the corner with a brick surround, and bookcases stuffed with self-help books and...dare I say it, Russian novels. Spooky...a woman after my own heart.
“You have the same reading taste as me,” I remark, setting down my bag and sitting on a big armchair.
“I knew we’d think alike, Arielle. We’re mirrors of each other.”
I want to tell her that she’s the female image of Max, not me, but I say nothing. The less we talk about my fiancé, the better.
She pulls back her long, dark hair into a ponytail, settles cross-legged on the sofa and says, “I told you so much about my life, my family in Spain and stuff, but you’ve revealed nothing about yourself.”
Only the most personal thing ever. “Oh, my life has been very normal,” I hedge. “You know, school in New York, college, my job with Dandelion Films, and now I’m engaged.”
“Engaged to one of the richest men in the world.”
“Well, I don’t focus on that aspect. Money doesn’t motivate me.”
“What does motivate you, Arielle?”
“Passion. In work. In love. In ideas. I think you have to really believe in what you do on every level. You know, morally and spiritually speaking.”
“Do you believe in Fighting the Wind?”
Her question grabs me by the throat. Do I believe in this Hollywood blockbuster? Is it important on the grand scale of things? Or is what Cecile is doing so much more significa
nt? “Of course I do,” I reply with a half lie. “I fought to get a female in the role. And I think the fact that your character Sunny is gay is important. A movie with a message. So many people are homophobic.”
“Are you homophobic, Arielle?”
“No! Of course not. I believe in gay rights, I believe in same-sex marriage, I believe in–”
“You kept trying to convince me last night that you weren’t gay. Why is it okay with you that others are gay but not yourself?”
“But I–”
“Why label things? Why is it so important for you to limit yourself, to pigeon-hole yourself?”
“I....I...” I stammer, “I guess I’ve never thought of myself as being locked in some pigeon-hole.” For some strange reason I feel hurt by her accusation. I am liberal-minded!
Her voice softens at my injured expression. “You’re so tender, Arielle. So vulnerable. I hope your husband-to-be realizes how lucky he is.”
“He tells me every day.”
She locks her eyes with mine and says quietly, “When you came by my hand yesterday in the bath, I could feel you tremble, feel your beautiful little pussy quiver – you know, just the thrill of it, the excitement gave me an orgasm too.”
But how? You didn’t even touch yourself.
She goes on in her husky voice, “All I had to do was give myself a tight clench and I felt little ripples of pleasure. Not a bumper-big, mind-blowing orgasm but, you know...a little thrill. Touching your hard nipples and those beautiful boobs of yours – seeing how turned on I got you...well...you got me horny, Arielle.” She bites her lower lip. “My pussy flutters a little when you look at me with your big blue eyes. But you know that, don’t you? You know you penetrate me with your intense, come-on stare, don’t you?”
“Valentina! I’m not trying to seduce you!”
She chortles with laughter. “Just kidding. Where’s your sense of humor? Lighten up.”
I sigh with relief but am alarmed when I can sense my panties have got a little moist after what she just said. I shuffle my position on the couch and sit up straight. “We need to finish this script,” I say assertively. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”
She pouts her full red lips. “Such a shame. We’ve had so much fun together.”
I spend the next twenty minutes with my legs firmly crossed listening to what Valentina has to say about Fighting the Wind and the ideas she has for the love scenes. Somehow, she has convinced Billy that a full-on sex scene between her and her onscreen girlfriend in the film is a must. “To titillate the audience,” she explains.
I have Lucifer purring away on my knees while I’m also trying to type on my laptop. I look up. “Valentina, there’s no way our kind of audience will be up for that.”
“Oh, stop being so backward-thinking. People are more open-minded these days. Mid-American housewives are reading about bondage and sex toys, for God’s sake – hell, they’re even experimenting with it all.”
“Yes, but gay sex in a mainstream movie? A blockbuster, buddy movie?”
“Why not?”
“Because, because...”
“It hasn’t been done before?”
“No, I don’t think it has. This is not some French or Italian art-house film. This will be screened in shopping malls across the USA.”
“Then give them something to talk about with their popcorn and soda.”
I put my laptop aside and gently unhook Lucifer’s claws from my skirt. I get off the couch and stretch my arms. “I’m going to have to talk to Billy about this, Valentina. Personally, I don’t think it will work. I mean, I know that gay characters in movies are either marginalized or made the punch-line for degrading jokes a lot of the time and so having your character being gay, and you, yourself, being gay, is already a big leap forward. We can hint at sex, show a kiss or something, but a full-on lesbian love scene?”
“I thought a little light BDSM.”
I laugh. “Okay, now I know you’re kidding me. It’s that crazy Spanish sense of humor. You Europeans – really. Max does the same thing to me...you know, that poker face thing? Which is what you’re doing now. Very funny. You guys are expert at getting us Americans all worked up for nothing.”
I think back to that time when Max tied my ankles to the bedpost when he said I’d been disrespectful and needed to be punished – his wacky sense of humor had me fooled at first.
As if reading my mind, Valentina says, “I think we should play it out. Do a little improv acting – we thespians love that.”
I burst out laughing at her unintentional (or perhaps intentional) onomatopoeia with the word, thespian. “Lesbian bondage?”
She still dons her poker face. “Yes, why not?”
“Not even my fiancé would approve of that.”
She widens her eyes innocently. “He’s not into a little dominance play? A little S&M? He looks the type. So manly...so controlling Alpha male.”
“No way. He won’t come near me with a whip. Personally, it’s something I wouldn’t mind experimenting with, but him? Not a chance.”
She rolls her eyes. “My ex girlfriend is like that. Can’t play Dom and Sub with her ever – she has an aversion to any kind of physical power play. Except, I think in the past she got pretty tough with men. You know when she was ‘straight.’ But she would never lay a hand on me.”
“Yeah, well, in my fiancé’s case, he has good reason. A violent childho—” Shut up, Arielle! I stop my sentence midway and change the subject. “Who did these paintings on the wall? They’re lovely copies. Got the colors just right.”
“I did.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You’re an artist as well as an actress? Why does that not surprise me?”
I wander about the room feeling extremely uneasy. I promised Billy we’d get this script done and dusted, but now I’m feeling like I want out of this part of the project altogether. This whole movie process is giving me the willies. Something about it just doesn’t seem right. The procedure doesn’t feel normal...both of us tinkering about with the script and we’re not the official scriptwriters. Then again, having only ever worked on documentaries, who am I to judge? This is Hollywood, not a world I know well.
“Do’you mind if I make us some coffee?” I ask, stalling my decision as to whether I should throw in the towel and let her get on with it with the script doctor. I don’t have time to play her silly games right now, nor second guess what’s going on in her nutty mind. Besides, I find her disconcertingly attractive, mixed with my anti-male mind-set after my needle-dick nightmares, I’m an easy target right now. I don’t want to succumb to her sexual charms again.
Valentina gets up, the folds of her dress falling like ripples of water about her willowy body. “Let me help you.”
“No, really, I can do it. You relax. You take sugar, don’t you?”
“Just half a teaspoon.”
“Sure.”
I slip off to the kitchen, relieved to get away from her for a moment and her quirky, oddball demeanor. I take two funky pottery mugs down from a shelf. They look like they were hand-painted by a child. I turn on the coffee percolator. The kitchen is chaotic. There are piles of scripts and baskets of fruit also stuffed with stray papers, magazines and bills. Lucifer comes in and jumps on the kitchen table, his tail up vertically swishing from side to side. He leaps across to the kitchen counter landing on a pile of papers in one of the baskets, which he then begins to use to sharpen his claws. “Lucifer, you naughty boy.” I prize his paws away from the basket and take him in my arms. But something catches my attention. A name.
Jenny Beaumont.
My heart is beating fast. It’s a business letter about Fighting the Wind from Billy Gold to Valentina.
Producers: Jenny Beaumont / Finders Keepers Enterprises.
Executive producer: Billy Gold.
Jenny is not meant to be involved with this project! In any shape or form. I stand there for a moment staring at the letter, a rush of blood pumping in my ears �
� I can feel myself redden with fury. This must be some sort of mistake.
I march into the living room, still with Lucifer in my arms and say to Valentina. “Who is the producer on this movie?”
She sits up and looks at me surprised. “Billy Gold with Finders Keepers Enterprises.”
“He’s the Producer or executive producer?”
“Oh, you must have seen some paperwork in the kitchen.”
“Yes. I wasn’t snooping. Lucifer landed on a very interesting piece of information which I, as co-producer and director of Finders Keepers Enterprises...” I stop myself short. This is so unprofessional. Valentina has been hired as an actress – she doesn’t need to know about this cock-up. It makes me look incompetent to be so in the dark. To have been hoodwinked like this. To have been such a frigging, freaking idiot.
“Do you know Jenny Beaumont?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“I know who she is and we once spoke on the phone. She’s one of the producers of Fighting the Wind. I mean co-producer with Billy and Finders Keepers Enterprises – you’re partners, aren’t you? I mean, Finders Keepers Enterprises is Jenny Beaumont and Max Knight fifty/fifty, isn’t it?”
I want to scream. I want to shout out, No, actually, that meddling bitch is not part of Finders Keepers Enterprises at all. I can feel my knees trembling but I try to stay calm. “The coffee sounds like it’s ready. One sugar, you said?”
“Half a teaspoon.”
“Oh yes, that’s right.” I set the cat down and go back to the kitchen. I cradle my head in my hands and wonder what I should do next.
I need to see Billy Gold – find out what the hell is going on.
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