IS LUSCIOUS LLONA STILL TO BE “THE GIRL WHO NEVER…?”
Well, not if an office full of randy co-workers at Nymph magazine can help it!
To make ends meet, Llona takes a job as receptionist in the offices of Nymph, the super-sexy girlie publication — not realizing the demands about to be made on her (such as working in the buff!).
One look at Llona and every man on the staff, as well as the only other woman, have each put fifty bucks into a kitty: the first one to make it with Llona gets the pot.
One hilarious scene follows another as Llona, naked but never entirely defenseless, resists, counter-attacks, or retires behind the breastworks, as a series of slyly conceived and hair-raising assaults are made on her matchless, uh, record.
THIS NUDE FOR HIRE
Ted Mark
1969
CHAPTER ONE
The night of her wedding, she crawled into bed.
Her cheeks were so rosy, her lips were so red,
The Pill in her tumtum, and ready to thrill,
Until her groom shouted, “The Hell with The Pill!
“The Hell with The Pill! The Hell with The Pill!”
His fury surprised her. “The Hell with The Pill!”
Llona stared at her bridegroom in amazement. He was jumping around their honeymoon hotel suite in a rage. His fury was so wild that his crisp new pajama pants kept falling down with the violence of his movements. Every so often he’d have to pause long enough to pull them up again. But even when he paused, there was no surcease from the angry tirade spewing forth from his lips.
“The Pill! The Pill! You never told me you took The Pill!” He dived for the falling pajama pants. “You never mentioned you did anything like that! You hid it from me! . . . Goddam pants, I told the salesman the size was too big! . . . That’s a helluva thing for a man to find out on his wedding night! Pretty damn shrewd! Waiting ’til after we’re married to tell me a thing like that! . . . The hell with them!” He ripped off the pants and flung them aside. “Oh, boy! I've been taken! I’ve really been taken! Me, of all people! That my wife should take The Pill!”
“Please, Archer! Please! Calm down! Why are you so excited? I don’t under—“
But it was no use trying to reason with him. He was beyond hearing her. Llona Hornsby, née Mayper—very recently Mayper, since they’d only been married a few hours, a few unconsummated hours, she sighed—could only stare at him and brood. Here she was an eager bride on her wedding night and he just kept on ranting about The Pill and ignoring her.
Llona, in her bridal nightie, was not the kind of a girl it would be easy for most men to ignore. Stretched out on top of the bedspread, she was about as ignorable as a detonated H-bomb. Even the aura of honeymoon night perfume hovering over her was radioactive in its impact.
Visually, Llona’s appeal was truly nuclear. Her breasts were large, ruby-tipped nose-cones in the heat of anticipated—but, alas! frustrated--blast-off, pushing full-power against the atmosphere-thin material of the yellow gauze nightgown. Her full hips were revved up and rotating in time with the hungry movements of the plump cushion which was her streamlined derriére. Her long, sleek legs zoomed out from under the shortie nightgown like twin curved missiles straining to be unleashed. The entire five-foot-nine length of her lushly designed body mushroomed against the senses like an atomic explosion.
But not against Archer Hornsby’s senses. His rage was a coating of lead rendering him impervious to Llona’s roentgen-loaded charms. There was no click from his Geiger counter to answer the smoldering radioactivity of her gold-flecked brown eyes. The golden brown hair spread over the bedspread, the moist lips, the sexy high cheekbones, the pert nose and firm chin, the expression of atomic lust—all left Archer cold. His anger had removed her warhead; it had reduced his nuclear bride to the status of a marital dud!
But Llona deactivated was still potentially explosive. She may have been rendered dormant, but that innate atomic sex energy was still there. And if she could be deactivated by him, she was capable of reactivating herself!
This she now did. “Archer!” She broke into his tirade loudly and firmly. “Archer, this is our wedding night! Are you going to make love to me, or aren’t you?”
“How can you ask me a question like that? You—you—-you Pill-taker, you!” Archer was bitter and still half-hysterical. “The Pill! The goddam Pill! And my wife! My bride! Of all the ironically horrible-—!”
“ARCHER! SHUT UP!”
“Huh?”
“Shut up! I don’t know why you’re carrying on like this about The Pill, and I don’t care. This is our wedding night! Now are you going to behave like a bridegroom should behave on his wedding night, or aren’t you?”
Archer paused in mid-sentence and looked at his luscious bride stretched out on the bed. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to answer. Stripped of his pajama pants, his answer was obvious. His anger was blanked out. Biology had taken over and reversed the Law of Gravity; what had gone down (in rage), now came up. “Umm,” he said thoughtfully, “I am going to behave like a bridegroom should behave on his wedding night.”
Satisfied with the answer, Llona held out her arms to him. The gauzy nightie stretched protestingly over the lush breasts. The large aureoles darkened the material and the long nipples sprang into prominence with the gesture. The imposing mounds rose and fell rapidly and Archer focused on them hungrily. . .
“Then stop all that silly yelling and come here,” Llona said huskily.
Archer obeyed. When he reached the bed he fell on Llona with the mindless response of a felled tree. His limbs tangled with the softness of her flesh and his root was grasped firmly and hungrily. Yet there was gentleness in Llona’s grasp. She didn’t want to rush things. She wanted to savor and prolong the moments of her bridal night.
Archer, however, was too entranced to deliberately tarry. The ripe breasts burned under clutching hands. His bride’s lips were marshmallow soft to his kiss, sweet-tasting and moistly warm, and pliably parting just enough to admit his tongue and capture it so that the sharp little teeth could nip just a little as it dueled with her own tantalizingly elusive tongue. And she trembled so deliciously under the hot-breath kisses he bestowed on her ears, her throat, her neck with its erotic pulse beating just where it met the rotundness of her shoulder.
His lips traveled downwards, pushing insistently into the deep cleft between her breasts until face was buried between them and one long, hot nipple tickled his ear. He caught the nipple lightly between his teeth and flicked it teasingly with his tongue. Llona moaned and her other hand joined the first between his thighs, the first still a slow-moving fist, the second all teasing fingers trailing over his haunches and his thighs, dallying at the quick of him, teasing the storehouse of his masculinity.
Now it was Areher’s turn to gasp. He pushed the hand away roughly, afraid of being premature. He slid down the length of her exotic body, his lips dallying at the slight roundness of her stomach, tongue playfully invading the navel and driving her wild, hands reaching underneath now to knead the delicious plumpness of her burning nether-cheeks.
Suddenly Archer pulled back. On his knees, he hovered over her an instant, drinking in the sight of the gauze-covered body appreciatively. Then he grasped the nightie at the top with both hands and deliberately ripped it down the middle. He tore it all the way to the hem, then pulled it from her body and flung it aside. He ogled her palpitating nudity for another long instant.