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Message-ID: <34858asstr$1011553804@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Katherine T." <kt1960@earthlink.net>
Reply-to: kt1960@earthlink.net
Priority: normal
Subject: {ASSM} Hollywood Moves (FF, FFF, lesbian) (Katherine T.)
Date: Sun, 20 Jan 2002 14:10:04 -0500
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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

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