Message-ID: <34858asstr$1011553804@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: "Katherine T." Reply-to: kt1960@earthlink.net X-Original-Message-ID: <3C4A6DD1.8392.1D3EFED4@localhost> Priority: normal X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Sun, 20 Jan 2002 07:12:17 -0600 Subject: {ASSM} Hollywood Moves (FF, FFF, lesbian) (Katherine T.) Date: Sun, 20 Jan 2002 14:10:04 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: apuleius, gill-bates The following entertainment is for adults only, and anyone not an adult is hereby warned to go away. All comments to the author will be greatly appreciated. Contact me at kt1960@earthlink.net A repository of erotic fiction by Katherine T. can be found at the following URL: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Katherine_T HOLLYWOOD MOVES by Katherine T. kt1960@earthlink.net I feel out of place in this huge room, as if I somehow suddenly stumbled into it a few moments ago. I don't move. My body tingles, especially my nipples. It's crazy. I'm standing, but only barely, rocking back and forth on a deep white carpet. It's a typical Southern California fantasy room, a sprawling living room with three enormous sofas, a cluster of armchairs, a circular bar that would look appealing in a cocktail lounge, tall tropical plants. Is it really a home? Well, it's Hollywood, and I've learned things are different here. Hollywood is another planet, the abode of an alien race. When you arrive here, you soon wonder if you're alien enough to belong here. If you're sane, you turn around and go back to wherever you came from. If you're one of the aliens, they take you in and you're trapped. Two of the walls are all glass. I can see my car outside in the curved driveway. Then she walks in. As if the architecture and furnishings of the house need to be upstaged, she appears in a flowing white peignoir whose several transparent layers aren't enough to completely hide her body. Her breasts have made her famous, and she's not hiding them today. The size and shape of her breasts have been revealed to millions in the various magazines devoted to celebrities. But this is not a magazine I'm looking at, this is the real Marion Turner in a real room, and the points of her nipples are punching through the peignoir. She smiles at me. "Hello, Rikki Ealing. I'm Marion Turner." As if she has to announce herself. I need to make a deliberate effort not to stare. I've been in Hollywood nearly a year, sliding from one party to another to get contacts, to meet important people, anyone who might be interested in a screen- writer. But in all of that year, nothing like this has ever happened, nothing like Marion Turner. Until yesterday the entire year has been a failure, and last week I actually wondered why I shouldn't kill myself. I thought of lying down on Rodeo Drive and waiting for someone in a Ferrari to drive over me. And here I am with Marion Turner. It's not only the breasts. There are beautiful breasts everywhere in Hollywood, in the streets, in bars, in restaurants -- a town devoted to breasts -- but Marion Turner is one of the top box-office attractions in the country, and that makes her breasts exceptional. She's also more or less married to a lesbian named Josey Corel, that Josey Corel, as much a celebrity as Marion. It's no secret in Hollywood that Marion and Josey are a lesbian couple. In the lesbian community, Marion Turner is one of the most famous lesbian femmes in the world. Outside the lesbian community she's touted by the media as a heterosexual superstar, a woman with media magic, the dream creature of a hundred million Marlboro men. She sits on the nighttime talk shows in a nothing skirt with her legs crossed, in a nothing top with her breasts half naked, and she talks about what it takes to make a man happy. She's had three husbands, so maybe she knows. But every dyke in America admires Marion Turner as the archetypical femme dyke, married to men or not. Does she know anything about me? Yes, of course she does. Marion knows everything about me, I can see it in her eyes. "Josey said you were butch, but you're not that butch, Rikki. Not too much, anyway. If you had long hair, you could even pass as a femme. You're cute." Is that a compliment? I don't know whether to tremble or curse, and my ambivalence forces me to silence. I tell myself to be careful, tell myself not to spoil anything, it's a chance, you need a chance, all the rest of it... "Josey was called away suddenly. "You don't mind, do you? She said she'd be back soon." She bends to get a cigarette from an onyx cigarette box on the low coffee table, and I can see her breasts bobbing and bouncing like a pair of loose melons. I have an urge to hold them, support them, prevent them from wobbling like that. "Josey is hardly ever on time anywhere. She has so much to do, so many people who want to speak to her." "I understand." But I'm not thinking of Josey Corel now, I'm thinking about Marion Turner, wondering what she would be like with the peignoir removed, not in a mere photograph, but in reality, here in this room, and the wondering makes me tingle again, from my nipples down to my crotch. When she offers me a cigarette, I shake my head. "I don't touch them anymore." "Yes, you're right not to smoke. It's a bad habit." I'm gazing at the lower part of her peignoir, and my heart jumps, because for the first time I see the shadow of her panties and what appears to be a garter belt holding up dark stockings. In the middle of the day? She's a marvel. Only a woman like Marion Turner could walk around her own house in the middle of the day wearing a garter belt and stockings and make it seem natural. I feel my clitoris twitch. It's too much for me, too much for my country-bumpkin little brain. Her underwear makes me feel ridiculous. She's still talking about her cigarette habit, waving the smoking cigarette. "I admire people who can resist bad habits," she says. "I think I must have all the bad habits ever invented." She sits down on the sofa, her breasts bobbing again, the neckline of the peignoir billowing open so that her nipples are barely concealed. "You met Josey at a party?" "Yes." I don't want to look, but I can't help it. I can't help staring at the famous cleavage, the inner slopes of her two bounteous breasts. I'm not ordinarily crazed by breasts; they can be exciting, but the excitement produced by other parts of the female anatomy is usually more sustained. She knows I'm looking at her breasts, and the message in her eyes is that she knows and she's happy I'm looking. Then she leans forward a little. "You know, since I'll be the star in Josey's next picture, maybe we can talk about what sort of part you'd write for me. Until Josey gets here. That can't hurt, can it?" "Actually, I haven't done much thinking about the script." "Really?" "I just met Josey yesterday. I don't have any idea what she has in mind for the film." "All right, we can talk about that. I can give you the details. It's going to be a movie about big business, and the male lead, who we don't have yet, is the head of a conglomerate. He goes around eating up smaller companies, sometimes by eating up the wives of their presidents, if you know what I mean. I'm his wife and I'm a slut. While he's fucking other men's wives, I'm fucking everyone else. Do you get the idea?" I feel suddenly dazed again, uncertain that I'm actually in this room with her. She can't possibly be impressed with me, I'm not much to look at, I'm not rich, and whatever talent I have has yet to be discovered. I feel an urge to fly away, to run before I get thrown out onto the tarmac drive outside the front door. "It sounds like an interesting story." She has mischief in her eyes as she gazes at me. "Do you think you can write a good script for that kind of film?" I follow the Hollywood rule: if anyone asks if you're capable enough to do something, always say yes. "I'm sure I can do it, Miss Turner." "Call me Marion. I only bite in bed." "Thanks, Marion. Yes, I'm sure I can do it." "You need sex in the script. Good hot dialogue. And chances to show as much skin as possible. Josey won't care about the rating. Did you see my last film? I showed nearly everything in that one." "Yes, I did see it. I thought you were great." She seems pleased. "Do you really think so?" She smiles and flutters her eyes as though she really cares what I think. "I'd love to write a script for you." "You're sweet, Rikki. I once knew a butch by that name. She was very hot. Are you hot?" My voice gets lost in my throat. "I don't know." "You're blushing." Now I'm getting angry. I'm thinking of lifting the lamp on the table beside my chair and throwing it at her. She'll get five days in the hospital, and I'll get five years in jail for assault. "Don't be irritated, Rikki." "I'm not irritated." "Anyway, I don't mean anything, it's just talking. Stand up a moment, will you?" "What for?" "Just stand up and let me look at you." I tell myself what the hell and I do it. Her eyes go directly to my crotch, and now I understand this crazy Marion Turner is looking to see if I'm packing a dildo. She seems disappointed, but then she apparently gets an idea that makes her happy, and she suddenly rises and opens her peignoir and drops it away from her body. "There, isn't that better?" My eyes take in the bare breasts, the wispy black garter belt, the dark hose. She moves forward, and she calmly places the flat of her hand over the front of my black jeans. "Do I make you hot, Rikki? If you're hot, let's have a little party." I feel a rush up and down my spine, a total body thrill. What sort of game is it? Josey Corel might walk in and catch us, and that would be the end of any chance I'll have to write that screenplay. I might even need to defend myself physically against Josey. She's rich enough to kill me and get away with it. In order to save Josey, Marion would testify against me. But looking at Marion, I don't care about consequences. Whatever she wants she can have. She can have or do whatever she wants because she's too beautiful to resist. She a femme dream-woman and I'm just a stupid ugly butch from Pittsburgh. I came to Hollywood to write screenplays, and this is the first time since I arrived that writing screenplays doesn't seem like Nirvana. Marion Turner is Nirvana. She moves close enough to lean against me. "If you're going to write a screenplay for me, don't you think you ought to know me? I mean know my capabilities? We ought to know each other, really know each other. We can get to know each other now. Right here and now." And as if to emphasize the here and now, she rubs the heel of her hand against my crotch again. We land on the largest sofa and wrap our arms and legs around each other. She kicks off her high-heeled mules, and now she wears only the panties and stockings and garter belt. I'm still dressed. I feel like I've suddenly fallen into a Penthouse photo spread, right into one of the photos to land on a couch with the girl. When I was in high school, I used to borrow magazines like that from anyone who had them and spend a whole night soaking up every detail of every photograph, even holding the pictures upside down to get a different view, hungering for the women, hungering for their bodies. Marion Turner has never appeared nude in magazines like Penthouse, but she has appeared nearly nude, or just about to be nude, in other magazines, and on the covers of every magazine that poses celebrities, and now here I am in a tangle with her on a white sofa in an enormous living room in Beverly Hills. When I kiss her, she immediately pushes her tongue into my mouth. When I handle one of her fabulous breasts, she groans. I pull my mouth away from hers and slide my face down to bury it between her breasts. Her skin is like ivory, warm ivory, each breast rubbing against a side of my face as I lick the valley between them. I wrap my hands around the sides of her breasts and press them together. Her nipples are stiff, firm little peaks, reddish and tall, with wide areolas. I take one breast in my mouth, aware that she's watching me. Is she judging my performance? I suck at the nipple, whip it with my tongue, suck more of the breast into my mouth. This is a time for lust, not tenderness, a time to be voracious. I use my hand to churn the breast in my mouth, to move the nipple around and across my palate and tongue. Finally I release that breast and move to the other one. I devour it, sucking up the nipple, chewing on her areola. I feel in a crazy dream-state as I remember whose breasts I'm sucking, whose naked body lies in my arms, on what sofa in what house. I imagine every butch in the world aching with envy. I finish with the nipple and lick the groove between her breasts again, nuzzling my face into it, pressing both breasts against my face as I bury myself in her flesh. After a while I feel her hands pressing on my head, urging me down. I drag my face over her diaphragm and down to her belly and her panties. I sniff at her panties, then hook my fingers into the waistband and pull them down past her hips to the tops of her thighs. Her pubic hair is jet black, trimmed to a neat triangle, a thick tuft. I lean back and pull her panties away from the canyon between her thighs. I draw the panties inside out along her legs, slithering them against her stockings. She lifts her knees as I tug the panties off her feet and drop them onto the white rug. She opens her thighs wide, hooking one leg around me. No modesty here. She has a meaty cunt, a long delicious crack centered in a forest of rich dark curls. Small slick labia protruding between the puffed larger lips. Her clitoris is erect, the red little tip exposed. My own cunt throbs as I gaze at hers. Marion Turner's cunt. Then I bend my head to make a meal of it. She moans. She hooks both legs loosely around my back. She keeps her thighs well apart to give me room to work. I use my fingers first, stroking the fur at both sides of her slit, caressing the large lips with my thumbs to make all of her cunt wiggle like a live little hairy animal. Her little lips take on added blood and protrude even further, opening like a lovely flower. I smell her perfume, a delicate scent now mixed with the stronger delicious cunt smell. I rub the little lips with my thumbs and make them open wider. She moans again, and the cunt smell rises more powerfully to my nose. My brain is in a whirl as I gaze at the inner flesh of her cunt running with her juices. The vaginal opening appears to wink at me, a greeting, a recognition. Holding her cunt wide open, I mash my mouth down onto it and slurp my tongue into the wet flesh. She cries out. She writhes against my kiss. I stroke my tongue down and forward, then curl it back into my mouth. I do this again and again, delving into the opening, into the hole, and licking upward to flick her clitoris. I gather up her thick juice and carry it into my hungry mouth. After a while I lick up and down the slick edges of her cunt. I close my teeth gently on the fleshy lips. I lash at her clitoris. She whines and pushes her cunt against my mouth. I take her clitoris between my lips and suck it, then release it, then suck it again. Now I leave her clitoris and plunge my tongue as far as possible inside her vagina, wiggling it, fluttering it, withdrawing and plunging inside again. I keep sucking her rich juice. Her taste excites me. I'm nearly drowning in her musky fragrance. I can't get enough of it. I don't want her to come yet. I want this to go on forever. Finally, panting, I raise my head for fresh air, coming up like a porpoise out of the sea to gasp for oxygen. Our eyes meet. Her gaze is warm, passionate, from under shadowed lids. Her lips are parted and moist. Her breasts are up, the nipples tight and tall and swollen. "Let me roll over, Rikki." I back off the couch, dropping onto my knees beside it. My inner tension increases as she rolls onto her belly. Her round ass shakes sensuously as she settles herself on the pillows. She keeps her thighs together. I gaze at the lovely globes framed by the garter belt and stocking welts. Firm full thighs and an ass of incomparable beauty. Marion Turner's ass has been underrated by her public. People make a great fuss about her breasts, but her ass is just as exquisite. I lower my face to it, taking hold gently with my hands at both flanks and pressing my mouth against one of the smooth globes. I hear her moan. I slide my parted lips over her buttock, swabbing it with my tongue. I adore the way the resilient flesh stirs against my face like gelatin, smooth and soft and warm. I move to the other buttock and kiss that one as I manipulate both wobbly cheeks with my hands. She arches her ass upward and parts her thighs more. I gaze at the scattering of black hairs that travel from her cunt along the inner slopes of her buttocks. I raise my head. Now I can see the fur-shrouded pouch of her cunt completely. She looks hairier this way. The pubic triangle is trimmed, but here everything is wild. I place both hands against her ass and wiggle the rubbery cheeks, squeezing them, molding them. They part to reveal a quick glimpse of the dark cunt between them, and the dark little pucker of her anus ringed with delicate little hairs. My head pounds, my breath is ragged, the crotch of my jeans is soaked. Marion elevates her ass even more, serving it up to me. In case I don't get the idea, she purrs at me over her shoulder. "Kiss me some more. Kiss me everywhere." The canyon between her buttocks offers itself like a dark mystery, a challenge, an irresistible call to the most basic lusts. Behind her now, I lower my face to the billowing cheeks of her ass and nuzzle between them. My mouth pushes between her buttocks. My parted lips encircle her anus. She groans, pushes her ass upward, pressing it against my face. Her soft buttocks quiver against my cheeks. The groove presses snugly to my lips. I probe with my tongue, teasing her little anus, twisting my tongue against it. A funky taste, not unpleasant considering my mood. Here in the valley the scent of intimate perspiration mixes with the fragrance of her cunt and the dark hint of her ass. A heady smell. I breathe it in with delight as I carefully tongue her twitching anus. She keeps moaning, writhing. Does she want more? Does she want my tongue inside? I'm not sure I want to do it. I usually do it, but at the moment I'm not sure. But I tongue the outside quite thoroughly, licking up and down and across, wiggling the tip of my tongue against the anus without actually pressing for entry. My hands pull her buttocks apart, then push them back together again against my face. My name is Rikki and I have my face in Marion Turner's ass. Finally I straighten up. That's when I receive my biggest surprise. For there is Josey Corel, Marion's butch husband, standing in the center of the living room and smiling at me. She's tall and square- shouldered and naked, and around her loins is a leather harness and a wobbling pink dildo. * * * It's obvious that I've fallen into something here. Something unexpected and apparently wild. But my first thought is that Josey Corel looks better in clothes. Or maybe it's merely that I don't like looking at naked butches at all. Josey Corel is far from ugly, but she's definitely not a femme. My second thought is to wonder if the dildo she wears below her belly is made by the same manufacturer that made mine. Of course it's not possible to tell, but it looks similar. And then I'm wondering if she keeps it clean. I think dykes who don't keep their dildos clean are pigs. And then I think that if I had any sense I'd get out now, smile and say goodbye and head for my car and drive out of here. The problem is that I'm too dizzy, too hot from the tangling with Marion. I haven't really fucked her yet. I want my fingers inside her, my arm pumping as I watch her come. As if she knows what I'm thinking, she now rolls onto her back and she spreads her thighs with her knees up. She doesn't seem surprised that Josey is standing there. She smiles at me. The fact that her lover is in the room doesn't bother her at all. Then she looks at Josey. "Do you have a strap-on Rikki can use?" Josey crosses the room and opens a drawer. She returns with a strap-on dildo not much different than the one she's wearing. The leather harness looks new. She hands it to me. I don't say anything. If I'm going to leave, this is obviously the time for it. But I don't leave. I stand up and strip off my clothes. I take the strap-on and get it on me. Marion is happy. "She looks good, Josey." "Yes, she does." I don't know about other women, but wearing a strap-on always adds a new dimension to sex, always increases my excitement. Sometimes when I feel bored with a woman, all I need to do is put on a strap-on and I'm suddenly interested again. And my excitement was even greater now, because I wanted to fuck Marion, and I enjoy fucking with a dildo more than fucking with my fingers. I take the cock in my hand and fondle it to get the feel of it. Marion holds her arms out to me. With my heart pounding, I climb on top of her and she takes hold of the swaying dildo. "I know you're good. Don't you think she'll be good, Josey?" "She looks like it." Now I'm worried I'll make a fool out of myself. I use my hand to guide the tip of cock into Marion's vagina. "That's it." "Give her a good time, Rikki." I'm beginning to understand that both of them are a little crazy. What kind of a relationship do they have? Is this what everyone in Hollywood does for entertainment? I shove forward, the dildo sliding into Marion inch by inch until she has all of it. I support the upper part of my body with my arms. Is this really Marion Turner I'm fucking? She starts moving under me, churning her cunt on the cock, groaning, enjoying herself as Josey stands near and urges me on. Each time I slam down, I feel the buzz in my clitoris. I make the strokes long, sliding slowly in and out, then suddenly slamming into her without warning. She loves it. She rocks her knees against my hips. When I look down, I can see the pink dildo pumping in and out of her stretched opening. Then I see Josey moving around to stand near Marion's head. Holding her cock with her hand, Josey pushes the tip at Marion's mouth. Marion opens her mouth and takes it, and she starts sucking it. Josey rocks her hips, sliding her cock in and out of Marion's open mouth. Watching them almost makes me come. Marion has her eyes closed, her mouth open, the dildo sliding smoothly back and forth in her face. I keep stroking in and out of her cunt, my rhythm now matching Josey's rhythm, the two of us working Marion. The bizarre presence of Josey only excites me further now -- it no longer seems so strange. Marion obviously wants it. If this is what they like... Josey looks at me and smiles. "She's good, isn't she?" "She's wonderful." "Do you see how she sucks my cock?" "Yes, I'm watching." She glances down at where my own cock is spearing Marion's cunt. "She likes getting worked at both ends. Have you ever done this before?" "Never in my life." "But you like it." "Yes, I like it." "That's important. We don't want you doing anything you don't like to do." Josey is now sprawled over Marion's face, her hips pumping slowly as Marion sucks. I can see the saliva wetting Josey's dildo. I reach forward to hold one of Marion's breasts, working it, then tugging at the fat nipple with my fingers. The famous tits. The famous face with saliva drooling out of the corners of her lips. Josey looks at me. "She's almost done." Yes, she is. I pump with more force. I wonder if I'm permitted to pinch her nipple, and then I think the hell with it and I do it. Marion comes. When I see that, I take hold of my cock and work it around, getting the base rubbing my clitoris, working it, working both of us at the same time. Is Josey coming? The cock in Marion's mouth keeps her from crying out. I'm coming. It's lovely. I close my eyes as I continue fucking her. When Josey and I pull away from her, Marion gasps and she lies there on the sofa like a twitching rag doll. * * * Later we're cleaned up and we have our clothes on. Marion is now wearing tight slacks and a loose-fitting top. We sit around and talk. Josey pours the margueritas. Josey seems nice, now that I know her. "Listen, Rikki, it doesn't bother me to hire a new writer provided she's got the stuff. If you can write as well as you fuck, the job's yours. But of course you need to do a treatment first... on spec." "I understand that." "You know what we want. Lot's of sex. That's what people want these days. Marion wants to show off her tits and ass. Don't you, baby?" "That's right. Josey knows me." And now I know her too. But I'm thinking about what happened before, and I look at Josey. "How much of what happened between me and Marion did you watch?" Josey laughs. "All of it. Do you see that mirror over there? It's a window on the other side." "You were in the next room all the time watching everything?" "That's right." Marion is smiling too. They both look satisfied with themselves. Then it occurs to me that I'm just a toy. I'm the toy they chose to play with this afternoon. But I had Marion. Or did Marion have me? How do you know which end is which? How does a toy know that? "I'll start working on the treatment." "Do that. And come see us any time. You're welcome here." Marion nods. She sips her drink and she looks cool. What a lovely little joke and all on me. My name is Rikki and I've been fucked by Hollywood. What did I expect anyway? I leave the house and drive back to the city in my three year old Honda. End -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+