Crèmed Pâté

[ MMf, ped, exh ]

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Published: 4-Jan-2012

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This work is Copyrighted to the author. All people and events in this story are entirely fictitious.

When I was six I was 'June' in the Kids Collection Calendar for which my mom received the princely sum of $1000. The following year, on being promoted to June, July and August as Summer Pâté, I earned just over $5000 for my mom. By the age of ten I had taken over the entire year; we were outselling the Pirelli Calendar and mom was taking 2% of the gross.

By that time I was also appearing on mildly sexy commercials on television and in advertisements in glossy magazines, where I gave just a fleeting glimpse of peerless white panties, and mom could name her price and I could hardly bear to speak to other kids.

I wore the latest fashion clothes, minis, summer dresses, tennis skirts, sweaters, footwear free gratis for ninx as part of a sponsorship deal. On my eleventh birthday, we moved into a luxury apartment in a high security block and I was enrolled in a ridiculously over-priced private school for girls with anti-social attitudes. It was also around my eleventh birthday that my breasts showed up for real - not just firm nipples that had frequently enlarged from their golden aureoles when the photographers jokingly touched me up.

My father, whom I had never seen outside a photograph album, appeared on the doorstep, so to speak, one Thursday evening midway through my twelfth year, and demanded part of the action. Once past the security guards and seated in our vast sun lounge, he appeared as the most attractive man in the entire world to me. The way he kept looking at me with large, blue, sensual eyes sent delicious thrills up and down my spine, and for the first time in my life I was conscious of a serious tingling, burning itch in my womb and a wetness being generated in my pussy.

I decided that if mom did not want this guy I would have him. Any time any way! He filled one of our enormous arm chairs. I sat on the studio couch beside mom. As his eyes studied me from my toes to the tips of my auburn hair, I parted my knees. The already abbreviated skirt slipped another inch up my thighs, and the faintest ghost of a smile flirted with his lips. When mom had her face turned away in pretended anger at some remark he had made, he winked and I giggled. And wriggled my backside.

'Where the hell were you in the seven lean years?' mom demanded with vigor. 'When we had to scrape and scratch to find enough to eat?'

'It was you who walked out on me. Remember?' He smirked. 'And it was nine, not seven!'

'I was speaking figuratively!' Mom snarled the words. 'Like in the Bible! It's a metaphor! You didn't even bother to look for us! Never mind try to find us or fend for us! We could have starved for all you cared. And now in the fat years you suddenly appear to lap up the gravy!'

'I don't see any fat,' returned my father with a snicker. 'And I don't want anything from you,' he added with more than a hint of irritation and frustration in his voice. 'All I have been trying to tell you for the past hour, if you would just shut up for a minute and listen, is that you have been selling the kid - our kid - for popcorn and peanuts. I could make both of you, and me, millionaires by this time next year.'

This has to be said about her: my mom has many grievous faults, but all of them dissolve to utter insignificance when set alongside her greed.

The outcome of the meeting with my newly discovered dad was that all three of us, a full two months, two weeks and a day later, journeyed inland several hundred miles to a desert town not the same distance away from Las Vegas. The place we finally stopped at was about a mile outside the town. A genuine stone replica of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris topped by a neon sign, flashing needlessly in the sunlight, announced 'Magestic Studios'. I wanted to correct the spelling. The armed guard at the gate was not interested. He admitted us with admirable indifference after speaking briefly into his radio telephone.

'Ah! So this is the famous Miss Pâté!'

The man who spoke was the oddest human creature I have ever set eyes on, and I have seen some weirdoes - they gather around a young model like flies around the proverbial effluence. He had a round fat body only slightly bigger than that of a circus dwarf. His fingers intertwined from skinny arms that scarcely made it round his belly. But his outstanding feature was his face, grotesquely ugly and far too small for a head that was several sizes too big to fit on top of his body. I could not tear my eyes away from him. He laughed jovially at my interest. His laugh was like that of a part-time Santa Claus in a department store. He slid from his swivel chair unlaced his fingers with difficulty and extended a hand.

'It is a real pleasure to meet you, Miss Pâté.'

I shook the hand. It was the most peculiar sensation, like holding a comic fish after the cat had done its worst on it. I was fascinated now by the thin wrists sticking out from the oversized cuffs of his coat. The odd man had no interest in any one else in the room. He held on to my hand at arm's length as he let his eyes drift up and down my body. Dad had insisted that I wear my briefest skirt and the tightest shirt in my wardrobe.

'I'm Sam,' the human freak declared with obvious pride. 'Sam, Sam,' he repeated just in case we had difficulty in hearing or with such an unusual and complicated name. 'Samuel B Godwin!' He shrieked laughter while still holding my hand. 'Not to be confused with the sound-alike.' His middle finger tickled my palm. I had read in one of my mom's magazines that the palm of a young girl's hand was supposed to be her most sensitive erogenous zone and that tickling it was accepted as a male's invitation to fuck.

'Sam B Godwin,' he said again even more loudly, 'whose sole aim in life is to make you rich.' He released my hand with obvious reluctance and, for the first time since we entered the room, he turned his attention to mom and dad. He did not scowl exactly, but the leer of amusement evaporated. 'And who are you?' he demanded. 'If I may be so bold to enquire!'

'We're the parents,' explained my dad meekly. 'It was me who phoned.'

'I,' corrected the freak. 'It was I who phoned.' He climbed back on to his swivel chair after applying a sort of brake, which he pumped as if jacking up a car in order to change a wheel. 'My old English teacher -God rest the merry soul - had a saying: If you can't speak properly, why speak at all?' He wriggled his fat backside into position in the chair having got it to the required height. 'And if you can't speak English properly, what hope in hell is there of you ever trying to speak Spanish or French?' He returned his fishbone fingers to his belly. 'So you are Pâté's parents. So you telephoned a couple of months ago. So?' He gawked. The scowl demanded some kind of answer.

There was an embarrassing silence. Dad floundered. His mouth worked stupidly. 'We wondered,' he muttered apologetically, 'if you could do something for the kid!'

The ugly face broke into a wicked grin, not just the lips, but the cheeks and the eyes, the nose wrinkled and the ears seemed to flap. 'Oh, yes! And how! Could I do something for Pâté!' He demanded of me, 'Do you know what we do here, Pâté?'

'Films!' I answered, then thought about his earlier rebuke to my dad. We had an English teacher at our toffee-nosed school who also had an intense dislike of the short answer and insisted we make ourselves quite clearly understood with every utterance. 'You make films here.' I decided to go for the home run. 'If I am not mistaken, nor have been misinformed.' Then thought that 'misinformed' was dangerously close to 'misformed' or 'malformed' as in our present host.

'Do you know what kind of films?' When I answered negatively, he said, 'Pornographic films, my dear, that what we make here. Do you know what pornography is?' Again I shook my head and denied all knowledge of the subject. 'Sex films, my dear, with men and women boys and girls and some animals doing some extremely naughty things to each other. That's what we do here.'

His face assumed a threatening scowl as he turned it in the direction of my mom and dad again, and demanded, 'What sort of people are you? You bring your own flesh and blood along here to be exploited without telling her what she is getting involved in! That is the worst possible kind of child abuse and parental negligence.' He faced me again and beamed. 'Would you like to be in films, Pâté? Our kind of film?'

I thought about the question. I forced my eyes away from the exquisitely ugly face to wander around the room. The walls were covered with posters and photographs of women, some of whom I recognized as famous actresses. I made a token acknowledgement of the presence in the room of mom and dad. I nodded. 'I think so,' I said with feigned reluctance. I nodded again in affirmation. 'Yes! I definitely think so - if the money is right!'

Samuel B Godwin burst into raucous laughter. 'I like it!' he screamed. 'If the money is right! Yes, I like it!' He leaned forward and pressed a couple of buttons on his desk top. 'That's my baby!' he yelled. 'And you can stake your life on it: the money will be right for you!'

Almost instantly two different doors opened almost simultaneously at opposite ends of the room. The two men who entered could not have been more different.

'Jerry!' Godwin spoke directly to a huge black man who was built like an ocean liner. 'This is Pâté. I want an assessment. A seventy two! Please!'

The black man nodded. He smiled at me and held out a hand, not to be shaken, but to be taken, to be led from the room. As I left, I heard the other man, sickly white, hollow faced, skinny necked, being introduced.

'This is our attorney, Harvey Hamilton. He will explain the contract you will probably be signing, and put you in the picture.' The door closed.

Jerry, the black man, looked like and was built like a heavyweight boxer I had seen on television. He wore extremely tight blue jeans, however, and a shirt that was open all the way down to where it went under the waistband of his pants.

'Pâté, huh?' I nodded. I felt there was no need of precise English with this big man. We had stopped while he considered the proposition for a moment. 'Crème Pâté,' he exclaimed. 'Yeah! We'll bill you as Crème Pâté!' As if he suddenly became aware of my presence again, he crooned, 'You wouldn't mind? Crème Pâté seems to suit you perfectly.' He gripped my hand more firmly and we went on along a wide corridor with windows at either side and the sun seeming to stream in from either side. The matter had been decided. From that moment I was to be Crème Pâté. He snickered to himself. 'Yeah! Crème Pâté!' He was congratulating himself. He cast me a sidelong glance. 'And boy! Will you get creamed!'

We entered an enclosed area as wide as a football stadium. There were some men at work painting scenery, arranging property, moving furniture around from one space to fill another, and some other men working on cameras, cleaning lenses, manipulating flexible arms and tightening bolts and screws. No one gave us a passing glance. I saw one woman. Only the one!

She was carrying what looked like a basket of laundry, and her heels clicked regularly on the hard floor as she walked. She certainly did not look like a washer woman; she was dressed in the latest fashion business suit, had well-shaped legs and a big bosom, and her nails were painted bright red. She acknowledged the black man as she passed, and gave me no more than a mildly inquisitive glimpse.

'Hi, Jerry! See ya tonight?' The voice was east coast.

'Probably!' The big black man smiled politely, but that was as much as could have been said for his response. It surprised me. I wondered if he were queer. 'Will Bernie be there? And Guy? Or Arnie?' he demanded. I decided that he was most definitely gay. 'Poker!' he explained to me when the woman was well past. 'We have a poker session at her place every Wednesday! Heavy stuff! Needs tight stomach muscles!' He snickered. 'And lots of goulash!' By which I assumed he meant dollars.

The place was like the last word in what I would have imagined a film studio not to look like! It certainly didn't look like a place where men and women did naughty and nasty things to each other; somehow it reminded me of the Kids Collection Calendar studio, only bigger, very much bigger and with more people and equipment. I gazed around and asked timidly, 'Do they really make films here?'

The big black man had a peculiar way of snickering, as if the sound were coming down through his nose. 'Sometimes,' he replied. He laughed. 'When they have nothing better to do!' He hauled me aside to a kind of open-plan recess where a solemn faced Porto Rican waited with an over-sized camera. He lifted me on to a low table with no greatest effort than he would have expended replacing a book on a shelf. 'For now, however,' he grunted, 'we have to have a look at your talents!'

The Porto Rican activated his camera and pointed it in our direction as Jerry unbuttoned my shirt and massaged the bumps on my chest. There was nothing lewd or indecent in it. He pursed his lips and flicked a nipple until it stood out like a tiny pink bud. He held up the hem of my skirt and studied my legs. He nodded approvingly.

'Pull your knickers down to your ankles,' he commanded, 'turn round and bend over and touch your toes.'

I could do it easily. Touching one's toes and then stretching up was the first requirement in our gymnastics class, and was a regular part of the warm-up exercises - if you had difficulty with it, you were not allowed into the gymnastics class. I felt the cheeks of my backside being pulled apart. It was a peculiar sensation made doubly odd by the close presence of the whirring camera.

'Spread your legs!'

I separated my feet as far as the panties around my ankles would permit. A thick finger was pressed into the cleft of my fanny and slid back and forward a couple of times. I was laid across the table with my legs dangling over the edge while the Porto Rican flourished his equipment.

Jerry lifted me from the table. Both men seemed to lose interest in me. They conversed for a few minutes. Jerry swung away to speak softly into a mobile. 'Sort your clothing, sweetheart!' he said to me after I had been standing there for a while with my knickers around my ankles, then he washed his hands at a ceramic basin in the way the school doctor did after giving us a physical. 'Do you really want to be in our films?' He looked down on me; there was something I took to be pity in his eyes. The two men exchanged amused glances. When I nodded, Jerry demanded, 'Have you ever seen a sex film?'

'Only what you see on TV,' I replied. 'Only what mom watches.'

He sighed. He brushed the subject aside with a wave of his hand. 'You'd have to be a bit more scrupulous with washing," he said, almost apologetically. 'Nothing puts our stars' noses out quicker'n the smell of shit!' And for the first time the ice on the Porto Rican's face melted. Jerry snickered. 'I don't deny it!' He cast a significant glance at the other man. 'There are some among us who rather like it.' And the face from Porto Rica became solemn again.

He took my hand again and led me to a darkened room. There was light enough to see the white screen and the half dozen rows of seats. He planted me down. The seat was not a regular cinema seat; it was more like a double seat on a sofa. He spoke into his mobile again, and what light there was in the room vanished. In about twenty seconds some signs and letters and numbers flashed on the screen.

The first ten two- or three-minute shots were of little boys and girls playing on the beach, in a garden, on swings in a play park. They were innocently idyllic with only a flash of little girls' panties and little boys peeing in a corner. This was followed by slightly older children with progressively less and less clothing; they were throwing a ball at each other, then chasing one another, then wrestling and kissing.

'If any of this stuff begins to get uncomfortable for you, kid,' Jerry said, 'let me know and we'll kill it dead!' He put an arm around the seat behind me.

Older kids appeared on the screen, young teenagers, but the antics were much the same: running around, throwing beach balls, wrestling, some mild pecking. To tell the truth, I was beginning to get bored to my back teeth with it. Then, quite unexpectedly, out of the near distance a hulk appeared on the screen, a guy so masculinely desirable and sensuously handsome that I was sure the big black man noticed the jolt to my system.

'That's Harris Packer! He's the male lead in a lot of our productions. He seems to do things to the girls.' He snickered again. 'Particularly little girls; especially pretty little girls!'

Jerry laughed. His hand snaked over my shoulder and began to brush back and forth across my tit. The man on the screen and the hand on my chest were certainly doing things for me. Packer selected one of the older teenaged girls from a melee. He hauled her by the hand towards a chalet. Cut to the interior.

The man kisses the girl, girl responds with open mouth, and male lead's hand cups girl's ample bosom. Hand unclasps the strap of the girl's brassiere, close shot of breast with enlarged nipple being gently caressed. Pan to hips as hand slips under waistband of girl's shorts. Bulge in front of girl's shorts as she is being felt up, bulge also in front of man's pants.

With his free hand, Jerry unbuttoned my blouse, slipped a huge hand inside and kneaded the pliable flesh of my breast. The Packer, on the screen, pulled at the zip of his flies and unleashed a cock that I could hardly have credited with any reality. Fake photography, I tried to convince myself. Nevertheless I gasped at the sudden sight of such a thing on a screen.

The big black man snickered again. 'Spread your knees, sweetheart!' He emphasised the words with his hands. He pulled my skirt right back and started to rub my crotch. 'Yeah! That's smooth!' His finger slipped under my panties and ran along the groove. I realised I was soaking. He probed with his finger. 'You ain't been down with a boy yet?'

I shook my head and his exploring finger confirmed my virginity. 'Good!' He spoke into his mobile again. The screen went blank, the lights blossomed again. 'Button up!' he said to me. Then as we left the theater, he pulled me back and demanded, 'You absolutely certain you want to be in our films?' By this time the question was beginning to irritate me.

It was another two months, two weeks and several days before we heard from Magestic Studios again. I had decided that it was all a silly dream anyhow, and tried to pretend that I was not bitterly disappointed as the weeks rolled by without a blink of a promise. When the letter arrived I actually peed myself with the excitement of opening it: it was addressed to me!

Inside was an invitation to attend screen tests the following week, with the possibility of professional acting tuition alongside normal school-work to be given privately for the time I would be there. My mom was also invited along, but not my dad! I felt that was a bit unfair. There was also a check for $1000 'to cover expenses' which I felt was moderately generous. My heart was thumping like to burst.

The real stuff started almost as soon as we reached the studios. The freak, Sam Godwin, rambled on about fucking for ten minutes then invited my mom to join him at the bar and the swimming pool in his quarters. I was left alone for another ten minutes wondering what the hell I was supposed to do. A huge black man entered by the same door Jerry had used, but it was not Jerry; he was even bigger and blacker and dressed in even tighter pants and a indigo shirt without buttons. Thus hunk gave me the kind of look he would have given to a new office chair.

'Pâté?' He referred to a quarto sheet of paper. 'Crème Pâté?' I nodded. It was as if he doubted my word. He referred again to his paper. 'I'm Joe.' He crossed the room and offered his hand. When I shook it he looked me up and down, then explained. 'I'm your tutor.' He took a couple of steps backwards. 'Lift your skirt!'

I complied instantly. It was a standard request at any of my photographic sessions. He stared for fully a minute.

'Spread your legs!'

Again I obeyed instantly. He thrust a huge hand between my legs to feel my crotch. He made a meal of it; I could feel the wetness starting. He grinned. He grasped my hips and rubbed my backside. He brushed down my skirt and stepped away. He glanced at his paper again.

'Got a tit yet?' When I nodded, he waited, then sighed. 'Right! You got a tit! You want me to take your word for it?' He fluttered a hand in the direction of my chest. 'Let's see it then!'

I undid the buttons of my shirt. He did not seem all that impressed. He stepped forward and fondled each breast in turn. He twisted and tweaked each nipple until I could feel it hardening - and hurting.

'I've seen bigger!' he exclaimed. 'At your age! But they are beautifully shaped. Have you had them sucked yet?' I shook my head, and he retreated to the desk, searched around for a ballpoint, settled for a pencil he had previously rejected, and wrote something on his sheet of paper.

I assumed the physical was completed. I buttoned up. Joe straightened then sat on the edge of the desk.

'Sam has explained to you? In our films you get fucked! Maybe not right away, but ultimately, before you are a great deal older.'

'If the money's right!' I felt myself that the line was getting a bit frayed at the edges. I looked away. 'Yes!' I said. 'He said something about it.'

'I should think he did,' returned the big black man. 'That what we do here: fuck sweet white girls and capture it on film; otherwise we could pack up and go home - and probably go hungry.' He snickered in the same way that Jerry did. 'We all make lots of money by girls getting fucked on film! As sure as tomorrow is the day after this, and as soon as it is legally possible, if not before, you will be well and truly fucked - if not by Harry Packer, then by some big black guy!' He punted himself off the desk. 'We start with kissing today!' He took my hand and we left the room. 'And probably for the next week you'll learn how to kiss in a hundred different ways each one designed to get women wet and men hard!'

He wasn't kidding! Every male in the establishment had a go at me, and many were complimentary and offered their services if I wanted to put in some practice after work! You don't just open your mouth to kiss sexily; you have to use your lips, teeth, cheeks, chin and tongue to full effect and let your eyes glisten as if you were enjoying it.

All the cameramen and sound technicians kissed me, then on the second last day of the kissing classes I was shown how to make it look real with other females, a couple my age, but mostly much older women. The real wow came on the last day. I had to kiss the little fat freak with the small face and my stomach churned as he sucked and blew and tongued my mouth until I truly felt I was about to throw up. That wasn't the wow! At the last gasp, so to speak, and out of thin air my father appeared on one of the sets.

I was given the flimsiest chiffon and lace costume to wear, made to lie on a king-sized divan alongside his all-but-nakedness and kiss as if my life depended on giving satisfaction. And I'll never know why my mom left him! This guy was a sex machine and I wanted him to fuck me almost as soon as our lips touched. The way his fingers traced the contours of my breasts and flicked my nipples, his gliding caresses down my belly and between my legs, had me absolutely paralysed with unadulterated sexual lust. Love juices poured from me on to his exploring fingers.

The director called 'Cut!' as my first ever gorgeous orgasm was about to burst over me. All around applauded their appreciation, and my dad shot off in his drawers! And I was assured of a job!

Over the weekend, a six foot something woman who had once 'sung Wagner in the Carnegie' gave me lessons in elocution and posture and taught me how to enter a room and say, 'Custard and cake for tea' with such effect that men would ejaculate in their seats. She also showed me poses that would drive men to suicidal lust. There were also camera tests and make-up experiments 'to give emphasis to my dominant features'. All in all, it was truly exciting and made me feel like a million dollar starlet.

The following week, however, was a drag, for I had normal school work supervised by martinets who would not have been out of place with a whip on a Roman galley. Samuel B Godwin popped into the classroom at least once daily, remained for a few minutes, asked about my progress 'for he was paying good money to give me a mind', the body would take care of itself then begin to fade and then it would be worthless.

It was at the end of that second week when I began to wonder when I would be fucked. I knew instinctively that it had to happen soon. On that Friday afternoon, Joe appeared in the schoolroom, had a whispered dialogue with the tutor, then took my hand.

'Have you ever jerked a guy?' he asked on the way out.

The vast expanse of studio we walked through was all but deserted. The black man wore sneakers and made hardly a sound, in fact he walked almost like what I would expect of a ghost. The noise of my hard-soled shoes seemed to reverberate from one distant wall to another, which added to the feeling of unreality. There was a late afternoon autumn mist hanging around as we emerged.

'Your mom has gone off for the weekend with your dad.' It was the first time the big black man had spoken since we left the schoolroom. 'I think they are going to make a go of making a go of it.' We crossed a kind of quadrangle and alleyway into the staff living quarters. 'I have to help you with your home assignments, then revise the techniques you have been taught.' He snickered. The sound was incongruent; it was almost childishly simple in contrast to his cultured speech. 'You can shack up at my place, or you can go over and sleep at Sam Godwin's!'

'What's wrong with my own quarters?'

The man shrugged. 'Alone? Home Alone? Please yourself!' He showed me into his apartment. 'First we'll get your school work out of the way, then have something to eat.' He clucked as it were all a bore of a chore, but there was a twinkle in his eye that made me wary. 'Samuel B Godwin says I have to entertain you.' His final words were chewed into incoherence in laughter, like it was all a big joke to him. 'But he says I've to fuck you - only as a last resort....' His voice trailed away.

There is no denying it though, the man was smart. He explained difficulties and problems in my math, English and theoretical science work. I always put myself in the middle of the road average in class. Joe, in a bit less than an hour, did more for my intellectual ego than seven years of professional teaching. For the first time in my life I was actually interested in learning school work. When he was satisfied, he revised the kissing techniques, the elocution and the posture exercises. He had me naked several times in a matter of minutes. Love juices were gushing out of me, and I doubted if he even had the beginning of a hard-on.

We went into the kitchen when it was all over. 'What would you like to eat?' he demanded. 'Name it, and if I ain't got it, I'll get it!'

'I'll have what you're having.'

He referred to some packages from his deep freezer. 'Poulet r"ti ... la crole? Chili con carne? Merluzzo alla siciliana?' He laughed in his odd way. 'Fuck it! We'll lord it! We'll have pot au feu portugaise!' He hoisted me on to the work surface, brushed my skirt back as far as it could go and spread my knees. 'It will take half an hour; we may as well have a look at some pussy while we prepare it'

It may have been a packaged meal, but when Joe Fasenar served it up it was as good as any cordon bleu stuff I have eaten in hyper-expensive restaurants. I helped with the washing-up. We had just settled down to watch television when three other black guys, each as big as Jerry and Joe, appeared on the scene. All wore extremely tight pants, which advertised the bulging meat underneath, and designer shirts and jackets; one sported a kind of Count Dracula cape. They hugged and kissed. I mean they all kissed Fasener on the lips. My stomach muscles pulled. Guys kissing? Yeugh!

My first impression with Jerry had been that he was sexually off-beat, even when he was touching me up in the little cinema - it was the kind of cold aloof professional touch. I was convinced all these guys were gay. It was fully three or four loud chattering and laughing minutes before any attention was paid to me.

'Is this the pussy for the evening?' One of the incomers lifted me, with less effort than he would have expended lifting a rag doll, from the studio couch. He planted a kiss on my lips.

'This is Crme Pat, our latest!' explained Joe. 'She's my pussy for the night.' He laughed. The others joined in. He introduced them. 'Telford, Jeffreyson, and Sephrahem.' He laughed again. I wondered why black men always seemed to have such fancy names. 'Just call them Tuff, Jiff and Syph!'

Telford took me from his companion's arms and kissed me with full lips and handed me to the third, Jeff, who tongued me and was reluctant to put me down again. When they all got settled Joe Fasenar produced cans of beer and Coke for me, the inevitable playing cards, and wads of dollars.

'Play poker?' The question was obvious directed at me. Telford split the cards and flicked them in a shuffle.

'A bit!' But there was no way I was going to play for the kind of money these guys were producing. 'But not very well!'

'We'll let her play for free,' Sephrahem suggested.

'She can discard a piece of clothing for every fifty dollars,' declared Telford, and dealt out five hands. He snickered. 'We'll have her naked and screaming in no time.' And they all made dirty noises.

But it was true. I was down to my knickers before the night was half-way through, and was gratified by their approving glances and appraisal of my developing assets. Fasenar had stipulated: 'No touching till I say so!' But things began to turn my way very soon after the panties had to be pulled off while I stood on the table. I found, after a while, that I was able to read these guys like pages in a book, and they were teaching me the game to their own destruction. I was able to reclaim my clothing bit by bit: knickers, training bra, blouse, skirt, socks and shoes. Then I started to win money, lots of money!

At ten Fasenar put some CDs into his music center and each man danced with me in turn. We watched a late night sports program on television and some strip turns on an erotic channel. All through the evening they had been drinking beer and Southern Comfort and straight scotch. Joe Fasenar rose and demanded, 'You made up your mind what you're doing?' He grinned. 'You want the boys to take you back to your place? You want to shack up here?' He laughed loudly. 'Or sleep with Samuel B Godwin?' At which the other three hooted and laughed.

I was not fucked that night. I was felt up, top, bottom, back and front, and I jerked off Joe Fasener a couple of times in the night and sucked him in the morning. Breakfast was a purely token affair. Joe took me out for a drive into the desert, We lunched in a remote diner and spent the afternoon in a motel room where I was felt up again, sucked him off and jerked him between naps.

We had a late meal in a classy country club, danced and watched a few cabaret turns, then returned to Joe's place where the events of the previous night in bed were repeated. The only difference being that Joe Fasener brought me off a couple of times in his touching. And promised that I would be well and truly fucked if I were to spend the next weekend at his place.

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