—Ashley Lister, Erotica Readers & Writers Association
And here's a taste for your reading pleasure...
Chapter 1
“You mean I’m supposed to report to Mr. Heffy’s house?”
“Welcome to Hollywood, kid,” answered Sid’s head writer, and the telephone earpiece seemed to bristle in Artie’s hand with the force of Mickey’s nasal vibrato. “Oh, and stop by the five-and-dime and get yourself some swim trunks. Sometimes we work by the pool.”
“Sid likes that, huh?”
“His daughter does.”
Artie knew he could work anywhere, having written gags on streetcars, at the Y, even during slow-moving portions of his cousins’ bar mitzvahs. Still, he’d assumed that the writing team of Dressinger Clothing Presents the Sid Heffy Show would be working in an office somewhere downtown, like the radio writers did back in New York.
He liked children, but he hoped Heffy’s daughter wouldn’t be too disruptive. He didn’t relish the prospect of getting splashed by some eight-year-old’s aquatic gymnastics just when the next punch line was firing through his brain.
Showing up for his first day on the job with a notebook and a pair of trunks made Artie feel like the taxi ride had landed him back in summer camp—and the summery spring weather of Los Angeles added to the illusion. Coming from a world where one went into an office, rain, sleet, or shine, and worked, he told himself he’d have to adjust to this world where you showed up in the sunshine at your boss’s mansion, as if for a lawn party . . . and worked.
“Whaddya want?”
“How do you do, Mr. Heffy. I’m Artie Plask, your new writer.”
The man opened the front door wide enough to let Artie through, all the while rolling his eyes for the benefit of an imaginary audience. “So this schmuck from back east thinks I’m Sid Heffy.”
Nobody had warned Artie that the star employed a majordomo who looked—and acted—very much like the star himself, whom Artie had seen many a time in the movies. He reflected that the hiring choice showed a peculiar flavor of vanity on Heffy’s part.
“I beg your pardon, Mr.—”
“Lubb.” He sighed it out, as though the syllable itself ought to convey every detail of the crap he had to put up with in this job—such as opening the door to schmucks from back east.
Sid Heffy (like his double, Lubb) was a slightly rotund gentleman whose egg-shaped head and downy blond hair could not help but suggest, in one way or another, something newly hatched. Large, gaping eyes and a small, tight mouth conspired to evoke suspicious befuddlement—the basis of Heffy’s act, even in the invisible medium of radio, and, from the comedy writer’s point of view, the foundation for every line handed to him. And though no one was writing for Lubb, Artie had already noted that the man’s mimicry of his boss extended beyond what Nature had arranged, into the realm of demeanor. Having met this mimeograph first, he couldn’t help feeling that his first-day introduction to Sid himself would be anticlimactic.
This concern proved moot, however, as Sid Heffy was not in.
“But go on through,” instructed Lubb, in a tone implying he would have preferred to tell Artie to get lost. “The other writers are back there on the patio, and Elyse is keeping the jerks company.”
“Elyse?”
“Elyse. Elyse Heffernan.” Again the butler rolled his eyes. “Sid’s daughter.”
Artie, who hadn’t even remembered that “Heffy” was a stage name, and who also hadn’t spent his train journey boning up on the dramatis personae of his new employer’s family, felt as stupid as Lubb intended him to feel, and this was quickly putting him into a funk. Maybe the presence of an eight-year-old would be welcome, after all, to brighten the mood.
But there was no eight-year-old on the patio.
Instead, there was a breathtakingly picturesque woman of perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three. She was seated at the edge of the pool, completely naked. The downy blond hair that ran in her family was visible in two locations, and tickled Artie’s eyeballs from both of them.
He observed that the skinny young men who dotted the poolside landscape in their patio chairs were giving the beauty only fragments of their attention. Clearly acclimated to these working conditions, the fellows seemed fairly absorbed in their notepads and the rapidly expanding volume of material emanating from the typewriter.
Mickey, who was at the Olivetti helm, was on a roll, and Artie knew that you didn’t interrupt a writer in flow. So he stood at the edge of the patio smiling at Miss Heffernan, waiting patiently for Mickey to take a breath and discover his arrival. It was scarcely a hardship.
Elyse had evidently been in the water some time earlier, and her nipples still glistened in the morning light. She held Artie’s gaze, looking friendly, clever, and a tad hungry for attention. After thirty seconds of this paradisial stalemate she beckoned him poolward; he was about to accept the unspoken invitation when Mickey’s nasal tone broke in on the idyll.
“Oh good, Plask is here. Pull up a chair, Artie.”
Elyse shrugged and stood up, and he watched the arced lines of her bottom as she plunged headfirst into the water.
Mickey introduced him to the other seven “boys.” Artie shook hands, memorized names, then looked around.
“You said I was being added as a tenth writer, didn’t you? So if I’m the tenth man, where’s the ninth man?”
“Right here at home plate.”
The voice, though only moderately high in pitch, was unmistakably female—and it had not come from the direction of the pool, where Elyse was busy doing laps. No, this voice came from the doorway back into the house, a doorway that Artie was certain had been empty a moment earlier.
She was a compactly built woman about his age, svelte and lively looking, who was dressed in subdued tones that emphasized the acuity in her face. She immediately reminded Artie of every witty woman he’d known in New York, with all the ones he’d never encountered piled in for good measure.
For some reason, she was carrying an enormous quill pen.
“You don’t write radio scripts with that thing, do you?” Artie blurted. Writers did have eccentric habits—though not by comparison with the on-air personalities.
She strode toward him jauntily, like the more elegant type of European stage clown, and Artie admired the way her theatricality electrified every inch of her petite frame.
“Don’t you think we should be properly introduced before I tell you what I do or don’t do with my feather? Mariel Fenton.” She extended her hand amiably.
Her black-coffee eyes were birdlike in their attentiveness, only warmer, and Artie had the feeling that anything he said to Mariel, or even near Mariel, would be processed with intelligence and compassion—and never taken more seriously than was warranted.
“I’m Artie Plask.”
“I know,” she confessed. “I just wanted to hear you say it.”
He laughed. “I’m glad you’re so easy to accommodate.”
“I’m easy to lotsofthings.” Having tossed off the line, she efficiently deposited her quill in the band of her gray cloche hat, clapped her hands together, and addressed the group: “So, boys, what’s the story?”
Mickey grabbed three typewritten pages and handed them to her. Mariel quickly scanned them.
“No offense, boys, but this . . .”
“Stinks?” a writer named Gabe offered helpfully.
Mariel turned to Artie. “It is to be noted that I never actually employ that word here.” She addressed the group again. “Oh, well, let’s see what we can salvage.” She found her way to a vacant chair.
“Is she your most senior writer?” Artie whispered to Mickey.
“Nah—she’s just the smartest.”
“Look at this: first page,” said Mariel. “Heffy says he’s brewing some tea. There is absolutely nothing funny about brewing tea, Mickey.”
“It’s only an incidental line,” said a writer named Howard.
“Nothing is incidental in good comedy,” Mariel retorted. “Heffy should say he’s boiling an egg. Now that’s amusing—though offhand I couldn’t say why.”
“I think it’s partly because Heffy looks like an egg,” said Artie. Mariel’s approach to scriptwriting was very much in line with his own philosophy, and he hoped she’d approve of his insight.
She did. “Yes,” she said, with a decisive nod.
The work was intense and productive over the hours that followed. At lunchtime, he saw Elyse wrap her glittering form in a towel and glide into the house. She returned an hour later, clothed this time, clutching a monograph on modern art. Every now and then her laughter redounded musically across the tiles, obviously not provoked by Miró and Kandinsky, but by a stray joke that fell sweetly on her ears as the writers tossed ideas around the patio.
“Good work, Artie,” said Mickey, when it was time to quit. Three of Artie’s jokes had actually made it into the working script, which meant he stood a good chance of seeing one line make it onto the air Saturday night. For his first session, he knew this was good work.
Mariel had written about half the show, including most of the best lines. She stalked the patio when brainstorming, waving her feather like a zany orchestra conductor while Mickey scrambled to keep pace with her on the typewriter. Her buttock muscles flexed beautifully beneath her dark skirt as she strode to and fro, and her bosom bounced with sober confidence.
When the session broke up, Mariel stretched like a cat, and she smiled at Artie. He rose from his chair so that she could get by him on her way out. But instead of leaving, she walked toward the pool, where Elyse was lounging in a deck chair.
“How are you today, Elyse?”
“Wonderful, thanks,” she answered breathily yet melodically, rising from the lounger. “You?”
“I’m swell. We showed that script a thing or two, and your old man’s funniness will thus remain intact.”
Heffy’s daughter grinned broadly. “Thank you for keeping Daddy funny.” Her tone dropped to a conspiratorial hush. “He thinks he’s really a great actor, doesn’t he?”
“Indeed he does—and that’s part of what’s so funny about him. Say, have you met Artie, the new kid?”
Artie stepped forward. “I saw a lot of Elyse earlier,” he explained to Mariel. “But I guess I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself,” he said to Elyse apologetically.
“I knew you’d want to meet him,” said Mariel cryptically.
“Yes,” said Elyse, looking at him with sparkling green eyes. “I adore Daddy’s writers.” She surprised Artie by touching his chest. “Well, I’m off to my boudoir.” She laughed colorfully, as if treasuring a magical secret, then walked gracefully into the house. Even dressed, Elyse somehow looked nude to Artie.
The other writers had long departed, and Elyse’s exit left Mariel and Artie in a poolside tête-à-tête.
“You do understand she’s expecting you to join her there, yes?” Mariel asked.
“What?”
“Elyse likes to try out all the writers, at least once apiece.”
He felt his right eyebrow clicking itself upward. “I see. Well, I’ve certainly heard of less agreeable conditions of employment.”
“Oh, goodness, it’s nothing like a ‘condition of employment.’ Elyse is merely a pansexual sensualist looking for some innocent kicks. We all think of her as a sort of freelance sex goddess. But it sure results in a lot of loyalty among Heffy’s staff. Don’t forget, you’re an addition, not a replacement. Of course, Sid no doubt attributes the low turnover to his own charisma.”
“Yes, I imagine he would.” Though Artie had yet to meet Heffy, the star’s reputation for self-infatuation preceded him. Nor had it been diminished by the presence of the “made in his own image” butler.
“No, participation in Elyse’s little program is not compulsory. Benny declined,” Mariel noted, pointing to the chair that writer had occupied during the script session. “He’s known to prefer the company of men.”
“But she’s taken all the rest of them to bed?”
“Most of them. A couple of the boys are working from monogamous scripts. I’m afraid that Hollywood isn’t entirely what you fantasize it is—you know, one big orgy.”
“Hey,” Artie protested, “you’ve got the wrong guy. Or at least the wrong fantasy.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I didn’t come here looking for one big orgy. I’ll be perfectly content with a series of smaller orgies.”
She laughed appreciatively. “I apologize for misreading you.”
He bowed his head graciously.
“You said our local goddess was ‘pansexual.’ I’ve never heard that word before, but I know my Latin prefixes.”
“It’s Greek. The prefix, I mean.”
“Oh. Right. So tell me: did you decline to participate in the Elyse program as well?”
Mariel half winked, half shrugged. “Me? You know me . . .”
“No, I really don’t know you,” he grinned. “But I have a feeling this is something I ought to redress.”
“Exactly—and as soon as you’re redressed, we’ll take steps in that direction. But first things first.” She prodded him between the ribs. “Elyse’s boudoir is on the second floor, opposite the stairs. Unless you’re going to disappoint the poor girl.”
“Me? You know me . . .”
Chapter 2
A few minutes later, Artie crept into Elyse’s boudoir.
He thought the room might be better termed a den. His eyes roamed from beaded curtain to extravagant ottoman, from incense candles to luxurious bedclothes, and then to the sprawling, half-naked woman positioned upon them, gyrating with lust and caressing her own flesh with a corner of silk sheet.
“Funny—I thought Mariel said you were a sensualist.” It was Artie’s nature, not to mention his job, to open with a joke.
“Come here, sweet Artie Plask.”
He closed the door behind him but then hesitated, humbled by her apparent proficiency. “Are you sure you need me? You seem to be doing all right by yourself.”
“I may not need you, strictly speaking . . . but I want you.”
“Fair enough.”
“Yes, you look like you’d be able to please a woman. This woman, at any rate.”
Artie was grateful for whatever it was about him—his sympathetic eyes? his playful mouth?—that evidently advertised his devotion to female pleasure to those looking to obtain some. He approached the bedside, trying to absorb the testosterone-thrilling reality that the divine Elyse was going to crack her fruit for him, to show him her juice.
“Mariel’s right. You are a goddess, and I can’t imagine a lovelier one.”
“Thank you,” she purred. “Daddy thinks I could be a movie star.”
“But that would mean getting dressed.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re pretty happy hanging around here, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I love witty men,” she confessed in a drawn-out moan. “And women. And I’m the luckiest girl in the world, because the wittiest people in Hollywood come to my house every day and make me wet from morning to night.”
“On Tuesday and Thursday nights, you mean.” According to Mickey, those were the only evenings the team worked late.
“I bet the entire swimming pool smells like my horny pussy,” Elyse declared proudly, looking Artie in the eye.
He lowered his ass to the edge of the bed, his hard-on wrestling his thigh for top billing.
“Your jokes made me laugh today,” she continued.
This was his kind of foreplay. “Which one did you like best?”
“The one about ignoring.” She tittered at the memory.
There’s a customer waiting, and I don’t want to ignore him. I don’t want to . . . but I’d like to. Yes, that would work well in Heffy’s voice. “Thank you. That’s a subtle one.”
“I love that word, don’t you? Subtle. It sounds like a softly licking tongue.”
Artie knew a song cue when he heard one. He pulled the sheet away from her body, and focused his attention on the sex-damp blond fur he’d thereby revealed.
The ohhhh-oh she voiced when he ran a finger along the seam of her lips made her sound pleasantly surprised by his touch—though the “surprise” component was clearly an illusion. She shifted her hips to welcome him, and he kissed the sticky sweetness of her moist curls to continue the corporeal dialogue.
When he took hold of her bottom cheeks, their softness was a surprise; where they’d appeared shapely but firm while in action at the pool, in the bedroom they seemed to have undergone a metamorphosis from shapely muscles into equally shapely pillows.
He licked the length of her opening, and Elyse ohhhhh’d again. She gaped for him, and her clit sparkled like a swollen jewel in some undersea treasure chest. He continued licking.
Her buttocks slapped themselves against his palms, anticipating his caresses. “Keep licking. Ohhhhh . . . Lick my pussy all night.” She squeezed his frame between her knees, and the fragrance of her arousal cloaked him as he dined on her.
“You tickle so nicely,” she moaned, churning her sex in his face. “My mind, my pussy . . . you funny men tickle me everywhere.”
In that spirit, Artie slipped a finger up the crack of her ass.
“Oh, god, yes, tickle me there, too. Everywhere, every—” She broke off into sensualistic giggles.
He deepened the trajectory of his tongue, making sure to lavish sensation on every bit of pleasure-loving cunt flesh he could reach. Elyse writhed in slow motion, giggling and whimpering yeses and oh gods, and sponging Artie’s muzzle with her juices.
“Oh, go-o-o-o-oddddddd!” She laughed it; cried it; even kicked it, tangling the sheets.
Her clit hovered in his mouth like a gumdrop until, unable to come any more, she lifted him by the shoulders and kissed the top of his head. He turned his face upward, and she devoured his mouth with the abandoned kisses of a woman wallowing in satisfaction.
So this was life on The Sid Heffy Show. ...
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