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She wanted the producer of the television show--a very proper man. He played around with every woman except the one he planned to marry. She had to be pure. For a girl with her "problem," that meant a lot of pretending--a lot of one-night stands. For she... was a nympho.
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This page copyright © 2009 Olympia Press.
“That thing you got there is just about eating size.”
“A little croaker.”
“The hell you say.” Joyce glanced from the small fish at the end of the rod to the bulging bundle caught in his skin-tight jeans.
Five or six feet separated them as they leaned on the rail of the fishing pier. He unhooked the fish and threw it in a gunny sack with the others. It was making the grunting, croaking sound common to its kind.
I could grunt at the end of his rod, too, she thought.
“That makes four. A couple more'll be enough for a good fish dinner. Make damn good snook bait, though.”
“But there aren't any snook around.”
“I've got a couple here you can have. They'll round out your dinner. I just came out for fun anyway.”
“Six will be plenty for both of us. How about eating with me?”
Her fishing outfit was disreputable and too hot for Florida in May. But sometimes things reached the point where she had to take off her costume, TV makeup and hair and go out on the pier and be sloppy. No one ever recognized her, and it was the only way she could heal her nerves.
She knew she wasn't a nympho, but when the lust began building something had to give. She was in a mood to commit lust, and she saw a certain strength and shape under his worn shirt and pants. His eyes shone through the brush of blowing hair and beard. The salt air was fragrant from its pass over the sea and it reminded her of the smell of male desire. She wondered again as she had in the past whether a male has extrasensory perception that tells him when a female's in heat.
“Well—sure, why not?”
Damned if I haven't baited a big one this trip! He had leaped at the bait like a large-mouth bass. Her cunt was moving like the dark, wet insides of the gunny sack.
He picked up their catch, and they walked under the dim overhead light to the end of the pier and stepped onto the soft sand.
Joyce paused. “Listen! They're still croaking.”
“That's—uh—that's not the fish.”
“What is it, then?” She listened again. He took her arm.
“No, wait.” It was a human sound—a quiet painful—or lustful—groaning. It came from the dark shadows where the pier abutted the sand.
“Nobody's hurt. It's a regular thing every night.”
She moved cautiously closer, eyes adjusting to the darkness. Leaning against a wood stanchion, a spread-legged youth was gasping as a dark-haired girl bobbed her head up and down on his cock.
Joyce watched, fascinated, as a final spasm thrust his hips upward to the girl's face. He was shooting it now, she knew, almost tasting it herself.
“You mean this goes on here every night?”
“Yeah. The cops try to stop it, but how the hell can they? These are kids, thirteen to sixteen mostly. The girls wear a flower and one of those big rings. It means they'll do it. Usually they want a buck.”
“You mean they work at it?”
“Sure. It's more fun than babysitting. Let's go—if you still want to.”
They walked down the dark road to a tiny beach cottage about a quarter mile away. It looked to be two, maybe three rooms. Inside, he flipped on a light.
“How do you like your fish?” He stuck his bearded face around the kitchen door. He laughed. “You didn't tell me your name. What do I call you? I'm Ray. Ray Stevenson.”
Without the eyes he would have looked like an Old Testament prophet, long-haired, bearded, and sandaled. But he did have the eyes. Neon blue. They lit up the scene and turned their piercing blue light onto her.
mother calls me Joyce.” The fishing outfit must disguise her pretty good. She saw no recognition of her in his eyes—just those blue lights. “When she's upset she calls me Joyce Jones exclamation point.” She looked around the kitchen.
“What a place for a TV set. I thought you told me you didn't watch TV!”
“This is the only channel I watch. It's some intra-coastal water and a few fins—”
She went into the kitchen to stand in front of the set. Now she saw it, an aquarium! A group of gaudy fish swam unconcerned in a tank where the TV screen should have been.
“I told you, I hate TV.”
“Don't you even watch it in a bar, the news, anything?”
He stared at the fish a moment. “I'll start cooking.”
“I'm not hungry.”
“Neither am I.” He jammed the sack of small fish into the refrigerator. “They'll keep.” She followed him to the front room.
“Did you ever pay a buck at the pier?”
“It costs sixty cents to fish there. You know that.”
“What I'm talking about would cost you a buck-sixty.”
“You mean having one of those kids going down on me? Like you saw tonight? No.”
“Why? Any man would. A juicy little sixteen-year-old giving you her milky tits and tight little pussy—”
“That's why. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen—and I'm thirty-one. That's a whole goddamn different kettle of fish if the cops came along: That's the only reason. It's different with two kids. But a kid and an adult—forget it. If it weren't for that, there are times I'd pay them anything. Satisfied? I'm a dirty young man—getting older.”
He ran his hand reflectively along his jaw, smoothing his sideburns and beard. She wondered how his beard felt. She wanted to get her hands in his hair everywhere. She turned to him to let him see the pulse beating in her throat.
“This is one of the times, isn't it? Look.” She undid the buttons of her flannel shirt. “Look at these.”
Her nipples rose in blunt redness from high, full, white breasts. She lifted them higher to him. “Feel me—there's more.”
In his cupped hands her eager tits were heavy and throbbing. He shook his head in confusion.
“There was a girl—like you—one time. The whole goddamn thing went wrong.”
“Tell me—later. This won't be wrong—just feel me.” She pulled at his belt buckle, and led him to a little room beyond, where she saw a bed.
“Her name was Helen—”
“Take your pecker out. I want your hard-on—”
“Later—a lot later—I heard what she did with the baby.”
“For God's sake, I won't have a baby. I'd sue the drug store. I need your cock.”
“You want to see it? Here.” He undid belt and zipper and pushed the jeans down.
Joyce, wide-eyed, watched it spring toward her, the longest, thickest phallus she'd ever seen. Her large, black eyes, so well known on TV by her audience, widened even more as she stared at it.
“My God, Ray, have you ever found a girl who could take all of your peter?”
A rich, low laugh echoed the pleasure he took in the proof of his maleness. “Some. Bigger girls than you, though.”
She fondled it with moist palms, her fingers leaving white outlines against its redness.
“You better not do that too much. It'll blow itself all over that creamy skin of yours.”
“I want you to blow it deep under my skin— fuck it off in me.”
Joyce moved to the side of the bed, dropping her clothes on the floor, white nylon panties pushed down over the curving fullness of her hips. The gold-brown hair between her thighs glistened from the heat underneath. She lay on the bed, spreading the little muff apart with her hands.
“Look. See if it's big enough to hold that— that bull-sized rod of yours.”
Ray took in the length of her body. Quick, deep breaths moved her mounds and rounded belly in a rhythm of desire. The pink shell of her cunt shone around the trembling opening—waiting for him to test it.
Ray bent over her, a hand on one breast and the other inserting a long finger into her vagina.
“It's hot and wet and tight. Maybe too tight.”
“Try it. Get on me and try it. Ease that mammoth prick into me! Make me take all of it!”
She pulled his blood-pounding cock to her with both hands.
“Put it in, Ray—please—I've got to have it now. Ram it to me if you want—anyway you want—but screw me!”
“No.” The deep, passionate exhaling of his breath went over her like a hot breeze. “No. Not now. Maybe sometime, maybe soon, but not now. I won't put it in you.”
Her hands tightened around his throbbing penis, pulling it closer.
“You've got to. You've got to now. I'll chase you to hell and back if you leave me like this!”
“Cuss your fool head off if you want, but I'm not going through another Helen.”
“The hell with Helen—I'm Joyce—begging you to fuck me—long, hard, full!”
His eyes bore into her like shafts of blue light focusing on her mound. His open mouth engulfed the tiny clitoris—his tongue violently roughening its tenderness. Her muscles curled into tight knots exploding in a convulsion that muffled the tight, little screams in her throat.
Her hands never stopped squeezing and jerking the heavy hardness of his loaded cock. Sperm flew to her face in burning spurts and moved like thick lava down her cheeks.
He came up to her and wiped his semen away with the corner of a sheet, and lay beside her, panting.
She stretched in the luxury of release. “Thank you, Ray.” He grinned.
“But next time you have to put it in.” He nodded, and she knew he would. Except that there wouldn't be any next time.
They slept deeply, until her eyes flickered open sometime later. She disengaged herself gently from his outstretched arm. He slept on. Very quietly she gathered up her fishing clothes from the floor and tiptoed into the other room. The kitchen light shone brightly. Past the door her toes picked up sand. She brushed it off before sliding first one then the other foot into her pants and sneakers. Damn! The panties were in there. Now he has inherited female things for the next one.
After turning out the light, she let herself silently into the balmy May night. Not a sound from the bedroom.
She felt like a heel. But she couldn't afford any complications, either. She walked down the little street that ended near the pier where her red Thunderbird was parked. She saw lights in some of the houses and on the pier were three solitary fisherman.
It was four o'clock when she reached her apartment. Damn, her career couldn't stand much of this. She had used the fisherman for one reason: it was the only way she could reel in Duane Scott. A round-about way, but Duane was one of these men who wanted to bed down a girl, at the same time letting her know if she submitted she was not wife material. An old-fashioned cube, but too big to let off the hook.
Damn Duane Scott. And damn that fisherman.
“And now—the Joy Fox Show!” Joy made her entrance through the studio curtains and accepted the applause with a brilliant smile. It was very light applause and it died away before she could wave it down. She greeted the audience in her bright voice:
“A good, good day to you. I'm so happy to see all of you here in the studio—and all of you there at home—” She smiled into camera two. “We have three exciting guests to chat with today, lots of wonderful prizes and, as always, music from our own jovial Chunk Willis.” She turned to the organist and waited for a camera cut to the beam from Chunk's moon face.
Joy had retained some euphoria from her adventure of three weeks ago. Now her smiles came easy and she felt freer. That meant she had a better show, so she remembered the fisherman every afternoon as she smiled at the cameras.
Chunk's chords announced commercials. The only interesting guest slated today would be Rena Whitlier. She came on after the commercials. Rena—fancy as hell and on a Florida vacation. She was too attractive to be trusted, the kind to stir up the awareness and hackles of men and women respectively. But she might give the audience a gut-punch.
“Rena is the author of a book soon to be released called Be A Femme Fatale. Rena, when will the book be out?”
“About two more weeks, Joy.”
“Tell us about it—it sounds like a handbook no woman would dare be without.”
“I hope everybody feels that way. It would be lucky for me.” How can you be mad at someone so simple and honest?
“If we buy the book we turn into instant man-traps or what?”
“I wouldn't want to promise that much.” Rena turned candid eyes onto the camera. Joy saw the cameraman pointing like a bird dog. “Mostly what I've tried to do is help a woman intuit her own female power—to fathom the femaleness within her. For example, in chapter seven, HOW TO MAKE A MAN ENJOY YOUR CRUELTY—I just help bring to the surface what every woman is suppressing in her marrow.”
“I have a question. If this is a handbook of strategy, what if it falls into the hands of the enemy? Are men allowed to read the book or will sales be made to women only?”
“That's a very good question. Interestingly enough it is a completely harmless book for men, for I've made the delightful discovery that once a woman makes up her mind to be a femme fatale a man has no defense. Even if he reads her very manual of operations and knows what she's doing to him and why—he's absolutely helpless. That's why I tell a woman to be a femme fatale. Because if you don't, your man will always be on the lookout for one. He virtually insists on such a woman.”
“How fascinating and frightening. We're all waiting eagerly—men and women alike—for this new super weapon—for which there's no known defense—How To Be A Femme Fatale by Rena Whitlier.”
During the applause and Chunk's chords Joy put the book on her mental list of things to buy. God knows she needed it as soon as possible to help in a personal campaign she had going.
Joy wrapped up the lady author and introduced the third guest. Commercials were embarrassingly absent. The damn show's getting full of holes.
After they signed off and punched into the network Joy had to take some copy to Gladys in the continuity office. She cut through the prop room from the studio. It was, as usual, only halflit, the rear in the shadows of old set flats. A faint mumbling of voices reached her, and she saw dimly a movement at the far end.
Quietly she moved toward the sounds and peered around the end of a tall flat.
“You don't have to worry. There won't be anybody here for an hour or two.” It was Spike Cox from Sales. Who was sitting on one of the couches? Hope Van Landingham?
“I know. I've been here before.”
“What difference does that make? I'm single and a great believer in the new morality, especially for women.”
“You've got what it takes to make a believer, too. Let's see how you use it.”
Joy watched her take the loose, low-cut blouse down from her shoulders and turn her back to him. “Unhook me.”
Spike unfastened her bra and her breasts tumbled into his hands—big and soft—as she turned back toward him. He leaned down and took one of the large, dark nipples into his mouth, his hand searching under her miniskirt. “Take your bone out.”
Hope pulled her panties off and sat back with spread legs, waiting. “You do have a hard-on, don't you?” She laughed quietly.
He had his trousers and shorts pushed down. “What do you think? Is that the way you like it?”
Joy saw his cock standing up from the thick, dark hair covering his balls. Hope's hand went around it and squeezed out a drop of fluid.
“We don't have much time,” she muttered. “Lie down.”
“You're sure in a hell of a hurry. I don't like hit and run jobs.”
“Neither do I, but we can't take all night here. This is just a sample, honey. Let's try it for size.”
She lay back on the couch, her cunt well spread for him.
Much as she might dislike Spike, Joy's breath quickened as she watched him mount Hope and slide his prick into her. Her breasts overflowed his hands as he started driving in and out, the sighing sound of the couch mingling with Hope's low moans and the pulling and pushing of their flesh.
“Not so fast. Fuck me slow. Don't shoot it yet.”
Spike said nothing, his hips moving up and down on her.
Joy could feel the wetness on her own panties, hot between her legs.
“I'm gonna come, Hope. I can't hold it any longer.”
“Not yet—not yet—”
A guttural “Now!” broke from him as he slammed hard into her and, with short, fast strokes, drained the semen from him.
“Why the hell couldn't you wait a little? Now you've got me hung up.”
He backed his glistening penis out of her. “You know damn well I can't time it that close. You just weren't hot enough.”
She took some tissues out of her purse and patted the wet opening he had filled. “No more fast ones like this. Not for me.”
“Next time we'll take it slow—not here— okay?”
Joy heard their voices trail into nothingness as she moved silently to the door, and into the bright hallway, where she had to lean for a moment to catch her breath.
In the continuity office Gladys Simmons hunched over a big typewriter, absorbed in her own little creations.
“Here's a change of copy, Glad.” Joy laid the new copy carelessly on top of a disorderly pile of papers in the middle of Gladys' desk. Gladys brushed her hair off her face and raised her eyes from her work as if she were rising to the surface.
“What?” she croaked. Her little head atop its long neck teetered slightly. She focused on Joy and smiled nervously. “Is it three o'clock already?”
But Gladys flitted a distraught glance at her heaped desk. You couldn't imagine Gladys as anything else but an overworked continuity writer. She had probably been born hunched over a big machine, typing with clammy fingers, shaking the hair out of her eyes. She must have been born a twenty-nine-year-old virgin with intense, embarrassed longings. Never a little girl. No Girl Scout camp, no boy to get fresh with her. She existed on the margin of life in a no-man's land of “nine out of ten doctors approve” and Brand X is obscene. Joy shook her head sympathetically.
“Take it easy, Gladys,” she said vainly as she hurried out to Duane's office.
Duane's tan grin widened for Joy.
“Just the one I wanted to see. Come in, my dear, and have a seat.” She dredged up her choicest smile for Duane and took a chair. “I have the new ratings,” Duane said. Without looking at them she knew it was bad news. “The show isn't holding up and that may be why we're losing some business on it. I've already spoken to Tom. He's on it.”
“It is a bad time of year, you know—” she began, but he wasn't having any.
Duane leaned back in his leather swivel chair and fitted his fingertips together. His silver hair matched his silver silk suit. He presented an appearance that few women could resist.
Joy smiled. “All right,” she purred. “I'm in your hands. What do you want me to do?”
He leaned forward. “Somehow we must get more life in it. Attract a bigger audience to the studio—something. Now don't look so worried. We'll fix it.”
Joy moved to Duane's desk and he reached up lazily and tweaked her nose. “Pick you up at seven-thirty.” His phone rang. “Before you leave, stop in and see Tom, huh?” Joy brushed a pink kiss on his free ear and left for Tom's office.
Tom Duning's feet were propped on his desk and he was reading the latest Broadcasting-Telecasting.
“Pardon me! I didn't know you were busy.” Joy mock-hesitated at his door.
“Come in, come in. Never too busy to see you.”
“Duane said you wanted to see me.”
“I always want to see you, but in this case it's he wanted you to see me about this new format.”
“Good. Where do we cut down?”
He shook his head and gave her a devilish grin. “Not cutting down. Expanding.”
“You thought with the ratings dropping and the time of year—no. That's not Mr. Scott's way. We expand, spend more money—”
“Do I detect an editorial tone of voice?”
“Well, wait. Take a look.” He hadn't been losing any time, apparently. A new format was already drafted.
“You work fast, don't you?” She scanned the sheet.
“Duane anticipated all this and got me on it. He also hired—” Joy read: Co-hosts, Joy Fox and Rex Saxton. She stiffened.
“Who's Rex Saxton?”
“He's your new co-host that Duane hired.”
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