Coverage

Melody May bristled with rage. She longed to reach over the desk and strangle the man across from her, to ring his neck until he relented. Everything – her entire future – was in his hands, and yet he was standing his ground, and standing in her way. But, despite the anger bubbling up inside of her, Melody remained cool and calm, professionally continuing her interview in a manner befitting an unbiased journalist.

“Ludtke and Time, Inc. vs. Kuhn in 1978,” Melody began, reading the name of the court case from her notebook. “Have you heard of it? The court sided with the plaintiff, Melissa Ludtke, against Major League Baseball and Commissioner Bowie Kuhn, effectively saying that women reporters are allowed in the men’s locker room after games. To deny entrance would be to deny access to ‘fresh-off-the-field’ interviews, and to discriminate against women.”

“This isn’t about discrimination,” Art Hull growled, from behind his desk. “It’s about common decency. It’s about players’ privacy. It about a preservation of traditional notions of propriety.”

“But you can’t allow one group of reporters access to the players that is denied to another,” Melody stated flatly. She longed to get emotional, longed to shove her research down Hull’s throat, longed to tell him what she really though of him and his new policies. Instead, she pressed on, imbuing each of her statements and questions with accusations and subtext. “What’s next? White reporters are allowed in, but black reporters have to wait in the hall?”

Melody had found that the accusation of racism had the tendency to rile even the most well put-together of Southern gentlemen, and Art Hull was no different. He pounded his fist upon his desk, yelling, “God damn it! We’ve been through this seventeen times to Tuesday!”

He slammed his fist down again, causing Melody’s slick-looking Dictaphone to bounce on the surface. He continued, “The men’s locker room is for men. The women’s locker room is for women. Period. End of discussion.”

“Is that the end of the interview?” Melody asked sarcastically. Art Hull wasn’t going to end this line of questioning that easily.

He shifted uneasily in his seat, collecting himself. After a few moments of awkward silence, he said, “I’ve looked at Ludtke and Kuhn.”

Melody’s eyebrows were raised. “And…?”

“It’s an opinion. Not legally binding outside of New York state. And for that matter, not legally binding outside of Yankee Stadium.”

“It’s the precedent, though,” the girl answered. “Bowie Kuhn tried to prevent women from coming into the locker room, even going so far as to encourage all of Major League Baseball’s owners to do the same. Melissa Ludtke fought back, and the government sided with her – denying a woman access to her story was gender discrimination.”

“And what about an individual’s privacy?” Hull countered. “Reggie White, perhaps one of the greatest defensive ends of all time, pointed out that there’s no legitimate reason for athletes to be forced to walk around naked with women who aren’t their wives.”

“On your entire roster, there are exactly zero players who are married. At the professional level, it might be a different story, but it’s somewhat dishonest to claim that you’re concerned for the spouses of a locker room full of twenty-one-year-old men.”

“So what would you have me do?” Hull asked, leaning across the desk. “Male reporters aren’t allowed in the women’s locker room after a big field hockey game. How do you think that colleague of yours, Billy Bullock, would be greeted if he tried to force his way in? Isn’t that gender discrimination?”

Melody tried to force the name of William Lee Bullock from her mind. If Hull’s new policy of denying access to the locker room were enforced, it was the underclassman who would become the winner in all this, securing the beat that Melody had worked for over the years. This was the South – football was all that mattered in collegiate sports.

“That’s not the same thing,” the girl retorted, shaking her head. “It’s not like there are female reporters in there, either, with access to emotions and quotes that male reporters can’t get.”

“But if you wanted to cover field hockey, or girl’s soccer, or girl’s basketball, you’d be allowed in, while Bullock would be forced to wait outside?”

Melody couldn’t quite figure Art Hull’s angle. He’d been the football coach of the Palmetto State Stallions for over thirteen years, and had been coaching at various schools in various positions within the Southeastern and Southern Champions Conferences for a lifetime longer than that. He wasn’t a particularly modest man, or even much of a churchgoer. Before that fall, he had never seemed particularly concerned with the issue of gender rights, either for or against. And yet, all of sudden, he seemed inspired to make a point.

Being a football coach at a Division One school in the South awarded him a significant amount of power, even if Palmetto State University was not exactly one of the more traditional football factory schools. Luke Donovan, the athletic director, had bowed to Hull’s new rule - as had the school’s provost. Even the league commissioner had stopped short of stepping in, stating that the issue demanded “further study.” Art Hull was a local deity, and his divine word was law.

The options weren’t good for Melody. She had filed a grievance, both with the school’s administration and with the NCAA. The only available route that Palmetto State could take at this point, unless Hull himself backed off, would be to deny access for all reporters to the Stallions’ locker room after each game. Having done significant research on the subject for this piece, Melody knew that such an outcome would leave her extremely unpopular with the rest of the Press. Michele Himmelberg of the Fort Myers News-Press had learned this the hard way in 1979, first facing an angry crowd of male journalists with deadlines to meet, and then being greeted in Tampa Bay with a barrier in front of the locker room – the Buccaneers’ “Himmelberg Wall” – partitioning the players off from the reporters. If Melody pushed too hard, it would be a lose-lose situation for everyone involved.

“In that case, I guess Bullock would have a right to complain, as well,” Melody finally answered. Knowing Bullock, it would be just like him use the same logic to greet the ladies of the tennis team in their changing area. But Bullock’s intentions were skewed; Melody just wanted to be able to write a good story. “If privacy is such a big concern, why are male reporters still allowed in? For that matter, why are male photographers allowed in? And male cameramen?”

“It’s a men’s locker room,” Hull reiterated. “These men aren’t seeing anything they haven’t seen before.”

“This may shock you,” Melody quipped, “but it’s not like I’m going to see anything in there that I haven’t seen before.”

The coach rolled his eyes. “Look, I don’t feel comfortable forcing my boys to give you interviews while they’re wearing nothing but a jock strap and you’re dressed head-to-toe in some pantsuit.”

“So this is an ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’ thing?” the girl asked.

“Call it whatever you want.”

Melody saw her opening, if ever-so-slim and ever-so-desperate. At first, she simply saw a way to stick it to Art Hull, to portray him as a depraved old man who was playing at sexual harassment – women were only allowed in the men’s locker room if they were willing to become his players’ sexual playthings. But as the cogs worked inside her head, Melody began to realize that Hull might have left her a little wiggle room.

“Let me rephrase what I think I’m hearing,” she began, doing her best to spell it out for him. “A woman would, in fact, be allowed in the men’s locker room if she were as naked as the most naked man present?”

A smug smile came across the coach’s face. He knew instantly what the girl was playing at, but simply smiled and replied, “If you’d like to shed your skivvies, Miss May, you’re more than welcome in my locker room.”

It wasn’t a real offer. It wasn’t intended that way, at least. No part of Art Hull believed that this girl, this twenty-one-year-old blonde with illusions of Michelle Tafoya, would take him seriously. Even if he had, he would have expressed doubt that she’d have the courage – that she’d have the balls – to actually follow through.

***

That first week, Art Hull had been right. Melody May, dressed in her khakis and blouse, had stood outside the Stallions’ locker room, waiting with unease for the players to emerge.

It had been a difficult loss for the Palmetto State Stallions, a team eager to prove that it was bowl game material. Quarterback Dave Lebeau, in his senior year and destined for the NFL Draft, had thrown three interceptions. Sophomore running back Anthony “Battleship” Adams had been held to thirty-eight yards. In every way, shape, and form, Mississippi Tech had simply manhandled their conference rival. On the Stallions’ home field, no less. In their opening game.

Obviously, emotions had been high as the players left the 6-26 rout behind them and returned to their changing room. According to Robert James Wheeler of the Columbia Free Times, Battleship had questioned the team’s heart, kicker Percy Honeycutt’s leg, and even Art Hull’s coaching. Lebeau had confessed doubts about the Stallions’ hopes the following week, against Southern Baptist, to correspondent Jack Jackson and a camera crew from WCIV, a local ABC affiliate. And Mack Elkins of the Charleston Post & Courier quoted cornerback D’Wayne Mitchell suggesting that the officials were calling the game in favor of the Trojans.

Melody’s story, by contrast, had been flat. “Stallions Felled by Trojans” consisted mostly of second-hand quotes and boring interviews with less-than-important players. While Lebeau was all over ESPN, WCIV, and even the local Danbury Shopper, Melody’s story centered around the opinions of a second-string safety who only hung out in the hallway after game because he was waiting for his brother to pick him up.

The editor for the Palmetto State Tribune had understood Melody’s plight, but he was less than eager to give up an entire season’s worth of football coverage because Melody had been assigned to the beat. She had begged John Stanton that first week, to at least give her a shot under the new regime, and had failed miserably. Thus, as the Stallions headed into their second game of the season, against Southern Baptist University, Stanton was ready to substitute one William Lee Bullock for Melody May.

Melody knew what she had to do to keep her job, and her job – at that point – was much more important to her than her dignity. Her father had been a football coach in her hometown of Linfield, South Carolina, and ever since she’d been a little girl, Melody had dreamt of covering football for a large paper. She didn’t care if she was covering the Panthers, or the Titans, or the Hawks, or even the Saints – Melody would be in the big leagues.

And so, Melody pleaded with Stanton once again. She insisted that the previous week had been a fluke, and that she’d be able to land the Tribune a better story than anyone else. Stanton hedged, eventually allowing the girl one last opportunity, based almost entirely on how good her piece about Art Hull had been a week and a half earlier. But Melody wouldn’t be alone - Bullock was sent to cover the game, as well, and possibly get the quotes that Melody was denied because of her gender.

With the roar of the crowds beginning to die away after the Stallions upset victory over the Missionaries, Melody found herself standing outside the men’s locker room. She was sanctioned off from the doorway with a handful of other female reporters and throngs of groupies and autograph-seekers, a thin strip of yellow “caution” tape and a security guard away from her story.

D’Wayne Mitchell had pulled down two interceptions, both of which had decidedly swung the game. Linebacker Justin Cox had sacked the Missionaries’ quarterback Trevor Welch four times. Dave Lebeau had tossed three touchdowns and put up significant yards. And Battleship had rumbled to 171 yards over the school he had transferred out of that spring. It was an unexpected outcome, the Stallions being fourteen-point underdogs after their humiliating loss the week before.

Bullock was already inside, as were Melody’s male counterparts from dozens of other media outlets. ESPN and Sports Illustrated were both present that night, as were USA Today and Fox Sports Net. There was the usual collection of Charleston, Columbia, and Danbury papers, as well as all the local television news teams. All of whom were inside the locker room, basking in the victorious mirth of the Palmetto State Stallions.

And Melody was about to join them.

Standing five-foot-ten, Melody had a skinny, almost beanpole look to her. Her breasts were smallish, her ass nonexistent, and her hips narrow. Still, with her long, blonde hair and big, blue eyes, the girl was attractive enough to elicit attention from men and boys alike. After growing up a tomboy, Melody was still getting used to being hit on again and again every time she and friends went out for a drink.

As she slipped under the tape barrier, the security guard stepped up to stop her, and Melody recognized him instantly. Surrounded by a handful of other geeks, this guy had hit on her just two weeks earlier at the Equine Tavern. Melody had turned him down then, and it was just her luck that he’d turn up here, waiting to deny her, in turn.

“I’m sorry, miss,” the guard apologized, grabbing her by the arm, “but I can’t let you in there.”

“I’ve got a press pass,” she tried, waving her credentials in his face.

The guard shrugged. “Coach’s orders.”

So this was how it was going to be. Melody dug through the large purse dangling on her forearm, emerging with her trusty waterproof yellow Dictaphone. The device had been a gift, partly in jest, from Stanton himself, after Melody had fallen into the school’s pool while covering the girls’ swim team as a sophomore. She had carried it with her since then, bringing it with her on every interview and every story.

“A woman would, in fact, be allowed in the men’s locker room if she were as naked as the most naked man present?” the Dictaphone played. Her own voice was recognizable to the guard, but not nearly as much so as the second. “If you’d like to shed your skivvies, Miss May,” Art Hull growled on the recording, “you’re more than welcome in my locker room.”

The guard shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“I’ve got Hull’s voice here, loud and clear,” Melody replied, with the utmost confidence. “You can go get him, if you’d like, to probe him on the veracity of the quote.”

The guard had begun to doubt his own judgment. After all, it certainly did sound like Art Hull - his voice as familiar to the guard as it was to any college football fan within hundreds of miles of Palmetto State. And Art Hull’s word was law.

Melody knew that she had put him in a difficult position. If he let her in, he’d face the probable wrath of the Coach who had made significant headlines over the last few weeks because of his flap with female reporters. But if he didn’t let her in, there was a very good possibility that he’d face the wrath of the Coach who had given this particular female reporter permission to enter, albeit under a strict set of guidelines.

It wasn’t much of as much of a quandary to the guard, however, as Melody might have hoped. At least, not so long as she was dressed.

“Coach says right there on that tape that you’re not allowed in, so long as you’re all dressed up,” the guard observed.

“Yeah, but only so long as I’m as naked as the most naked man in the locker room,” Melody countered. “We could poke our heads in there, and see much I actually have to take off.”

He shook his head again. Shamelessly, he suggested, “There’s a lot of men in there a lot of naked.”

“Fine,” the girl huffed. She had hoped that she might actually make it into the locker room without taking her clothes off. “Just let me through the door, and I’ll do as Hull says.”

But the guard was having no part of it. “Coach says right there on that tape that you’re not allowed in, so long as you’re still in your skivvies.”

Melody glanced behind her at the gathered crowd. There were two other female sports reporters, as well as another two dozen people or so. What bothered Melody, though, was the handful of ten- or twelve-year-old little boys, waiting around for autographs from Lebeau, Battleship, or Art Hull himself. Could she really go through with this?

“You’re not going to make me strip out here, are you?” she asked him, in disbelief. “I’ll just take a step inside – I’ll even hand the clothes back out to you.”

“Coach says right there on that tape –”

“Fine, fine!” Melody yelped. “Fine.”

She dropped her purse to the cement floor, eager to get the first round of today’s humiliation out of the way. With a look behind her, Melody kicked off the high-heeled sandals she had been wearing. The floor was cold against her bare feet, but she doubted that it was the reason she had begun to shiver.

Melody was wearing a simple white blouse, with sleeves rolled up to her elbow, and the top few buttons undone to reveal a fair amount of bare chest. Her small- to average-size tits weren’t quite big enough to merit cleavage, at least called-as-such, but Melody had been showing off quite a bit of skin. As her hands traced down the front of the blouse, button by button, she continued to reveal that skin to the guard.

Her back was turned to the people behind her, but Melody knew she’d only be able to get so far before all eyes were upon her. She braced herself, knowing that this particular embarrassment would pass – once she’d undressed, she could enter the locker room, and face an all new embarrassment.

The guard’s eyes opened wide as Melody pulled her shirt apart. She was wearing a simple yellow cotton bra, which plunged downwards, revealing a fair amount of skin between the cups. It wasn’t overly seductive, but the guard simply couldn’t believe that Melody was actually going through with this. For Melody’s part, she couldn’t believe that she was, either.

She readied herself before shrugging her blouse off. Knowing that there would be hoots and hollers, she did her best to steel herself against them. If she were to back out, and let Bullock file this story on his own, this would be her last opportunity to do so. If anything, the thought of Bullock’s name in her byline urged her onward.

“What the fuck?” someone shouted from behind her.

“That girl’s stripping!” came another.

“What is she doing?” a woman asked.

Melody let the shirt slide off her shoulders, down her arms, and back around her body. As she did so, she did her best to stare the guard in the face, making sure that he knew she was doing this to get past him. It was hard to make eye contact, however, given that the guard’s gaze was locked squarely on Melody’s chest.

The reporter balled her shirt up and shoved it sloppily into her large purse. And, taking a deep breath, she reached for the button atop her fly.

“Take it off!” one of the autograph-seekers yelled.

“Slut!” yelled one of the groupies.

Melody did her best to tune them out, but it was difficult. The crowd behind her had little else to focus on, all of whom were just waiting around for the players to emerge. She could hear them making comments about her body, about what a whore she was being, about the gall she was demonstrating by stripping in front of children.

Still, she carried on. Her pants were gray, with thin, barely visible, white stripes running from low-riding waist to the flared ankles. They were tight fitting at the top, made from some ungodly combination of polyester, spandex, and rayon, and snug around Melody’s ass and her upper thighs. As her fly descended, Melody knew that she was in all the way – there was no chickening out now.

I knew what was happening, of course, but I never imagined that middle aged couples actually did it. Amy seemed to be shocked too, and she pressed close to the wall for a better look. My erection was so big that I couldn’t hide it anymore, but I was so into what was happening in that room I didn’t really care. When Amy shifted position to get a better look, my stiff cock poked uncomfortably into the side of her hip. Before I could adjust it, she moved again, this time briefly standing on her tiptoes, so that my dick popped down between her legs. Almost without thinking about it, I began sliding it back and forth, feeling a hint of warmth and wetness. Gradually, my sliding cock spread her pussy lips apart, and Amy shuddered, and I felt her lips get wetter and wetter. I held my breath, wondering how far I could go. I then began to lengthen my thrust, pushing the hanging clothes back with my ass, until finally with one thrust I slipped inside of her, pushing my hips up against her ass.

Amy gasped out loud; we had both lost all sense of the couple in the next room, or even where we were. Amy put both of her hands up over her head, pressing her plams flat against the wall, and spread her legs as far as possible, offering all of her firm, round ass. I grabbed her hips with my hands and began thrusting as hard as I could. I don’t remember how long this lasted–seems like minutes in my memory, but was probably only seconds–before I finally came in a massive explosion.

Afterwards, Amy slumped against the wall, panting. I stood quietly, trying to figure out what to do next, and trying to determine if we had been heard. After a moment, I could make out the sounds of grunting and creaking springs from the other room, and I decided we were probably safe. Amy apparently thought so too, because without a word she turned around and we carefully moved through the clothes, out of the closet, and into the hallway. The whole house was dark and quiet, except for a light and muffled sounds from a door farther down the hall. We paused for a moment, and then I followed Amy down the stairs. As we passed through the kitchen on our way out the back door, Amy stopped suddenly, turned, and put her hand on my chest.

“I’ve never been this worked up before,” she said, “I don’t know what I’m feeling, but I’ve got to do something about it.”

“What do you want me to do,” I whispered.

“I don’t know. You’re supposed to be the expert.”

I still can’t explain what I did next, except as an act of pure inspiration. I seized her around the hips and set her on the kitchen counter top. Then I knelt, spread her legs, and began to lick her pussy. I had never done this before, and it took me a minute to find my way through her pubic hair and the folds of her lips. When my tongue found the smooth, wet part, however, she gasped again, and grabbed my head to pull me in closer. For lack of a better plan, I just flicked my tongue as fast as I could. All those years of playing in the band finally came in handy. Amy made no more noise, but she clutched at my head, and began to move her hips back and forth on the counter. We soon found a frantic rhythm. Then, in a final convulsion, she pushed her pussy against my head, and I could feel her entire body quivering.

Afterwards, we sat there for a long while. I was sitting on the kitchen floor trying to work the kinks out of my jaw, when we heard a door slam upstairs. We jumped up and fled out the back door, down the yard, through the back gate. Then we ran all the way home. When we got to where my clothes we stashed, Amy paused only for a second, looked me in the eye and said, “See you tomorrow.” Then she ran inside her house.

——–

We never became “a couple;” the erotic part of our relationship was fueled by our exhibitionism. But we did a lot of exhibiting, which led to a number of adventures during that long, hot summer.

I was numbed by the revelation that the bastard that had caused me to behave so wantonly and do the rest of those disgusting things after that, was none other than my good friend Greg who had denied that he had any knowledge of the older couple that drugged me and spirited me away from my previous life. I thought about the way he had caused me to orgasm in front of his other clients when he fitted my second clit ring. The way he had opened me up in front of those strangers at the show that I had agreed to put on as part payment for his work. All the time he must have been organising the whole bloody thing. Telling his friends that I was just some little slut that couldn’t get enough of it as Michelle had so crudely put it. I silently vowed to have the sneaky bastard put away for as long as I possibly could. I felt even more violated than ever. I stopped myself from slapping her face as hard as I could as I fought for control. It was obvious that Michelle thought that it was all good clean fun. What a degenerate bitch! I remembered the hysterical laughing behind the mirror as I recovered after the electric shock. She must have enjoyed my humiliation as much as the other witnesses.

“I think you ought to get Dárcy now.” I said weakly.

I managed to control the rage inside me as I looked at Monica and Olivia standing there, in shocked disbelief that any self respecting woman could allow things like that to happen to a naive young girl. She squeezed my arm and we watched Michelle’s wobbly naked form go into the bedroom and close the door.

There was no doubt that Michelle was yelling at Dárcy as she called him an idiot for taking the chance to make a few more dollars by agreeing to take a role in Arnold’s movie, yesterday. I could hear every word as she berated him loudly. That had probably been what they were discussing in private when Olivia had been sent to her room. It all started to make sense now. She had been surprised when she had looked at my photo in Arnold’s car. That must have been the reason for her being distracted from showing Olivia off to her young friend that day. The voices raised yet another notch as Dárcy called her a stupid cow for admitting her part in my unfortunate experience.

“Do you mean that we’ve got to give evidence and put all our income at risk?” I could clearly hear all the words now. “You CRAZY old cow!” I could hear her wailing as she replied.

“You’re the dumb CUNT!” I heard her shriek at the top of her voice. “You thought that she couldn’t possibly recognise you, you prize idiot. You’d better get out of that bed and tell her how sorry you are before she changes her mind.”

The voices lowered again and I couldn’t hear them but I could sense that she was reasoning with him and telling him how much trouble they would both be in unless they both went along with our demands. Arnold motioned us to sit at their table and wait for them to calm down and come into the room. He shook his head.

“I think we’ve got them where we want them now.” He looked at me. “Do you actually know this Greg character then, Katrina?”

“I’m afraid so.” I looked at Arnold apologetically. “He did all my piercing work and I thought that I could trust the guy. I’m just grateful that Michelle caved in so quickly and told me who it was.” I winked at him. “Thanks partner! I couldn’t have nailed that bastard without your help.” I smiled gratefully.

Arnold’s mind was already racing with possibilities.

“There might be some good cheap gear going by the sound of it. They must have been pretty well set up to make porno movies from what you’ve told us, baby. Perhaps we should look at buying it for our new partnership? They might even be prepared to give it all to us if you let them off the hook? We could be filming tomorrow with all our own gear, maybe?

“We’ll get it if you want, but that bloody Greg is definitely going to be charged if I have anything to say about it. I want him to suffer the same way that he made me suffer.” I lowered my voice again “You’ll see! They have got to be made to pay, Arnold. Monica hasn’t told you about Vladimir has she?” I looked at Monica.

“No!– Not that part.” Monica said quickly.

“I don’t mind now. You can explain it to him later. It’s all finally over now. He’ll hear about it all at Greg’s trial anyway.” I quickly stopped speaking as a banging noise interrupted me.

I looked up as Michelle came back into the room with Dárcy in tow. The bedroom door had slammed shut behind them.

“To Be Continued…”

“We’ve got the best of both worlds now, my darling.” I pointed out the obvious and kissed her. She was then happy to watch as the two of them writhed and moaned with happiness in front of us.

“I just wish we had a camera with us.” She explained with a smile after a while. “Next time we won’t waste the opportunity to get some free footage.” She laughed with me.

We all slept together in the same bed that night. Arnold must have been completely worn out when the time came to shower and get dressed for breakfast. We interacted as though we had all known each other for years and joked over breakfast about using Arnold in some brief segments of our future movies. We attracted some attention from the other guests as we clowned around together. I could detect puzzled and envious looks from the travelling salesmen that made up the bulk of the motel’s clientele base. I guess they were wondering how Arnold managed to keep three attractive young ladies so happy.

I hoped that we would get the two storied warehouse that Arnold had mentioned last night. It sounded just perfect for what we all had in mind. Arnold gave the waiting work crew explicit instructions to take the studio apart and stow every item carefully into the waiting trucks. He told them that he had bought everything but the barest structure of the building itself, including all records of the studio business, contained in Greg’s former office. He seized the list of potential clients for sales of completed film projects and records of Greg’s proposed movies for the future projects he had planned.

“He won’t be needing these anymore.” He exclaimed gleefully. Not for a long, long time anyway.”

He packed the documents into the filing cabinet and locked it again.

“Make sure you take everything in this room.” He verified his instructions to the foreman of the moving crew. “Carpets, paintings, desks. Right to the floorboards now, absolutely everything of any value at all.” He smiled. “Take the lot!”

He was the consummate businessman. He told the crew to take all the fittings and be especially careful not to break the expensive two way mirrors in the studio itself.

“There must be well over a Hundred thousand dollars worth of gear here.” He whispered to me. “We will end up with the best studio in town. Just watch how we do it.” He was beaming with pride. “It’ll be the best thirty thousand that we’ll ever spend.”

As I watched the labourers dismantle everything of value to us from my former prison the next morning, I realised exactly what Arnold meant. The final price had been altered downward by Eight thousand dollars as my contribution to the new enterprise. This had been the figure that Arnold had demanded as compensation for my imprisonment and torture at Greg’s hands. Arnold had given him a cheque for only Twenty-two thousand for the lot. I smiled as I realised that I would only need to pay another Two thousand dollars for my equal quarter share in the new film studio business. Not bad when you consider that Arnold expected the new company to be worth in excess of One hundred thousand dollars. I would be a rich lady, thanks to his idea. He had this motto: “Don’t get mad– Get even!”

I paused to take one last look at the lone deserted building and looked forward to our new association with our partner Arnold. I was relieved that the cruellest episode of my life was disappearing before my eyes. The last remnants of my nasty recurring flashbacks were gone from my mind and I had proved that, with Arnold, last night in the Motel room.

When final instructions had been given to the truck drivers we got into Monica’s Mustang for the long drive home. Arnold got in the back seat with Olivia and I sat in the front with my more enlightened and ecstatic lover. She had a smile on her face as she started the motor and we drove off, back to the city. She ignored the giggling and carrying on behind us and her jealousy was almost gone. We had a lot of work to do before next Friday when I would have my next date with Jim. I was sure that Olivia or Arnold, perhaps both of them together would help to sooth my lover’s possible jealousies the next time I went out with Jim. We were all excited by our prosperous future together.

“To Be Continued as A.M.K.O Film Studios Ch. 1″

“Well! Give me a real kiss then.” Dárcy was smiling at me with his eyes twinkling as he reached toward me. “We have to get to know each other some time.”

I looked at Michelle and she nodded as Dárcy effortlessly pulled me over onto his lap and casually put his hand over my left breast. Acutely aware of his penis nestled between the crack of my bottom and touching the lips of my moist vagina I turned toward him and returned his kiss as his finger tenderly penetrated my lubricated love canal and at the same time stimulated my clitoris. It was no use fighting him off and I was no longer sure that I wanted to. Michelle joined us and I felt her ample breasts press against my body as she cuddled me and nibbled at my neck. I gave in completely and surrendered my body to both of them.

Dárcy hard and masculine on one side and Michelle cradling me with her soft smooth body on the other. I opened up my legs fully and let Dárcy probe more deeply. By now I was fast approaching orgasm and I flooded his fingers with my juices before I realised it. The air was thick with my musky scent as I shuddered and shook in their arms before I regained my senses and lay still. Bewildered by my own willingness to surrender my charms to Dárcy this way I fought for breath as I nestled into their arms. I didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or shocked when Michelle guided me toward her own waiting vagina and I tasted her juices. I greedily probed her steaming folds with my tongue as Dárcy watched and I treated his wife to a raging orgasm in my own unique way. Forgotten in this latest tryst was any semblance of decorum or modesty as I looked back at Dárcy for approval. He was licking at his fingers and smiling serenely at me.

“Well, darling. Don’t forget dinner. Plenty of time for play later on.” He was standing beside us and I couldn’t help noticing that his penis was still totally flaccid. As hard to believe as it was, he was totally unaffected by our earlier sex play. I assisted Michelle to her feet and helped her to serve out the meal while Dárcy sat at the head of the table watching both of us in quiet amusement. Naturally, I couldn’t help being impressed by his gentle nature but I wondered what it might take to get him excited. Every man that I had been with had become erect at the least stimulation and many of the boys that I had notched up at school had cum in their pants long before I was even undressed. This guy must have enormous control or be unable to achieve erection without more direct stimulation. As I to sit down at the table I smiled warmly at him.

“Wow! That was some kiss! No wonder Michelle loves you so much.”

“We’re going to be a great team. You are staying on with us, aren’t you Olivia?

I nodded eagerly.

Yes! We’ll get on really well together.” He looked earnestly at Michelle as she smiled back at him. “She’s a real treasure, darling.”

At last I had found a new family. People that appreciated me and promised to guide me to fulfill my dreams. I was still a bit concerned about their unusual house rules of remaining naked at all times but since I had lived with Michelle she had never forced me to do anything that she wouldn’t do herself. She had told me the truth about her husband, as far as I could tell and he hadn’t really forced himself on me as he easily could have. He was gentle and apart from that first shock as he fondled my vagina I was no longer scared that he might rape me or beat me. I hadn’t known him for very long but I was much more confident already. I felt that I could trust Michelle to look after me as long as I didn’t upset her in any way.

“To Be Continued… ”

“My thank to all the readers who have taken the time to vote for my stories and E mail me. It is really the only way a writer can communicate with the reader and get some feel for the impact of their stories. Please feel free to suggest ideas and comment via the B.B. or Email me direct.”

“Barbara Anne.”