“Take it slow,” Fatso ordered.
“Take it slow,” I echoed, silently, “you'll kill her.”
The camera practically touched their bodies; and I was so close, my breath damn near clouded the lens. The swollen head of Davey's organ slowly disappeared into the narrow cleft. Thanks to a kindly director, Fran was accorded a few seconds respite, a moment to accommodate the monstrous intruder. Davey showed steel-spring control. He slid in millimeter by millimeter.
I thought Fran couldn't take it. Half stuffed, she began churning, grinding her hips, screaming. Shrill, incoherent, her cries resounded, “Give it to me! Fuck me!”
“Fuck her! You're torturing the kid!”
Davey kept up his own pace. I stepped forward with some half-ass idea of offering assistance. Beating him up. Sticking my finger up his ass, making him stop the torment. Alec elbowed me backward and Davey resumed the slow motion balling. He must have been human after all. The last three inches of his inflated thumper went in with a swoop, maybe in spite of itself.
Now Fran reverted to the primeval. Stuffed to the gut by Davey's treetrunk, impaled, she shivered and shrieked like a seagull. Eyes glazed, unseeing, lost to rapture, legs revolving, fingers blindly clutching his hairy body. In to the hilt, belly to belly, he held himself motionless.
“Ride her. Fuck her.” Even Alec sounded excited.
Davey gave Fran a plodding, methodical fucking, like cavemen must have given to caveladies. In to the womb, then out, leaving only an inch or two as a deposit. His long pole glistening with slime. He sheathed it into her pussy, withdrew, sheathed it. At the last minute, the tempo accelerated. Without the customary signs of warning, I knew Davey was coming.
Without the command from the director, Davey pulled out, shaking his dick toward the camera. A heavy jet of gism spurted out. Another. Davey remained absolutely expressionless. I couldn't fathom the bastard. At least if the son of a bitch were grinning! At least if he enjoyed interrupting a fuck to show his cream gushing. That would be understandable, queer but understandable. I hated him.
“That just about wraps it up, kids. Now for a fast finale. Bellhop, you wake out of your stupor. One on each side of the lady, you shake hands like gentlemen and-” Alec spoke rapidly, but not rapidly enough. I heard every word, “-like gentlemen and then you take a quick swing on it.”
I called an emergency, unilateral, actor's strike.
“I'm not taking that worm in my mouth!” Not on film. Not in front of a lady. Not that worm.
Davey ignored the innuendo and acted more friendly than he had since I met him. “Gee, Doug, ya gotta! That's a very good finale, two studs suckin'.” I remained adamant and Davey remained friendly. “We all do it. See, if there were two girls, they'd be suckin' each other, one on each side of me or whoever the stud was.”
I shook my head stubbornly. “Geez, I hate fags myself, but there's nothin' queer about kissin' prick for a finale. It'll Only take a minute.” Davey played his trump card. “Why, I don't even have a hard-on,” he said, after examining himself briefly. Then he turned to Alec. “What do we do afterward? Tell him.”
Alec said evenly, “For la creme de la finale, you chew on Fran's tits. One each.” I surrendered.
“Big day tomorrow.”
Fuck his big day tomorrow. It was still early. I had a bottle of rye in my closet and there might be some gin left. Enough to toast my new colleagues and help along a friendly discussion among fellow workers. In my room after lights out.
I tapped on Fran's door, then on Davey's. They accepted my invitation with a giggle and a grunt, respectively. I rushed down to my room to wash out the glasses and put on my pajamas. Whistling as I rinsed.
Filming was over but the evening had only started.
XIV
I apologized for the missing ice cubes.
Fran tucked in the folds of her dressing gown. She hoisted the glass to her lips, her little finger crooked delicately but not ostentatiously.
Pouring fresh drinks for my guests, I had to bite back the question: How did you get into the movies? Under the circumstances it would sound too much like the classic: How did a nice girl like you become a prostie?
Fran was perceptive. She guessed at my unspoken question. Or maybe she just liked to talk about it.
“I'll bet you're wondering how a sweet girl like me broke into the profession.” She glanced at Davey, glowering in his corner. “Ever since I was a tot, I loved acting. When I grew a little older, I found something else to love.” Another glance toward the caveman.
Davey had stopped glowering. He was smiling fondly, not grinning. Smiling. As if what he felt for Fran was more than the easy lust of a rapist on camera. So Davey was susceptible. Who would have thought it! The cocksucker.
“I grew up loving a good fuck,” Fran explained, just in case I couldn't put two glances together. “How can a girl combine love of acting and love of fucking?” Fran posed a rhetorical question. Obviously she had achieved the winning combination.
“It took a little time. I lived in St. Louis, you see. Everything takes longer in St. Louis. First, I modeled and did some amateur dramatics. Then, I was lucky. A folio of my pictures caught the eye of the sweetest man in the business. Alec.”
That wasn't precisely the adjective I'd use to describe Fatso. Fran, however, assured me that he deserved every kind word in the dictionary.
“I owe a lot to Alec. He's not like other producers. He pays cash and he doesn't bother his actresses.”
“Or his actors,” Davey appended, solemnly.
“He's got a perfectly lovely wife back in Montclair.”
“That's a town in New Jersey,” Davey proffered, with the air of a conjuror.
“Alec's a real producer, an all-around man. He does the photography, thinks up stories, chooses the setting, finds the talent. If our films weren't silent, he'd compose the music. He knows how to take an ordinary girl like me and make her a superstar,” she said, without blushing.
“You're not ordinary,” I inserted, automatically. Now that I looked at her, I couldn't put my finger on any extraordinary features. Except those vulnerable lips and that vulnerable vulva. With unusual perception, for one of my forthright nature, I saw the girl filtered through the eyes of the producer. She radiated one quality appealing to any male viewer. Cock-vulnerability. What prick could resist it?
“My hair's not exciting. I'm not the frilly, false eyelashes type. Yet, after he saw my folio, Alec predicted that certain men would respond to my uh-”
“Any man would respond to you,” I responded.
“Balls. I know my limitations. I'm not like Davey. Every female flips for Davey.”
Davey replied to this compliment with a reaction typically Davey. His stubbly cheeks were suddenly suffused with color. Helpfully, he explained, “She means I have a big putz.”
Our party wasn't proceeding according to schedule. In order to keep the cunt talking and to account for my rising ramrod, I asked a leading question. “Tell me, Fran, as a performer do you have to obey all the director's orders?”
“Am I versatile? You can't get far in this racket unless you do a little of everything.” Fran patted her hair complacently. “My fans like to see me in different positions. Only I refuse to fuck animals. And I hate Lesbians.”
“Do you feel that way too, Davey?”
“Nah. Lezzies aren't too bad once you're in 'em.”
Fran interrupted Davey's reverie to expound on her subject. “A girl has to be versatile. Like if I was working in an office, I'd be filing and typing and running the mimeograph. This way I take it in the cunt, in the ass, between the tits, or what have you.”