Francie moistened lips that were already shiny with gloss before she knocked at the door, and when it opened, she looked unwaveringly into the face of the man who stood there, wearing a loose Mexican-style shirt with full sleeves and embroidery down the front, tight white Levi's, and sandals. He was looking her over, too, and she forced herself to be just as slow and insolent in her appraisal of him. Finally, he smiled at her and stood aside to let her in; and she felt suddenly relieved —she'd passed the first test, at least!
She walked nonchalantly into the carpeted room, pausing to kick off her shoe. She dug her bare toes into the carpet. Wow, it felt so soft!
"Oh, bravo! Such a charming gesture, and so well done, too. I really like your style, sweetheart."
Francie spun around quickly to look in the direction of the other voice, the slightly mocking, teasing one.
This second man was dressed even more casually than the first. His thin cotton shirt was open all the way down to his waist, and he had not even bothered to tuck it into his pants. He sat with one leg thrown carelessly over the arm of a Spanish chair, and his very bright blue eyes were undressing her already.
Francie found herself checking him out just as closely, even while the photographer, Jerry, was introducing them offhandedly.
"Brant Newcomb—Frances ... Frances . .. Ah, heck, who gives a damn about last names, anyhow! If you don't mind if Brant here looks on, Frances, I'd like to get started right away. I have a deadline to meet.
So he'd decided to let her have the job after all— fantastic! She had to hang onto her cool, though. Brant Newcomb was still watching her with a kind of amused insolence, and somewhere at the back of her mind was the nagging thought that she'd seen his face somewhere before—maybe in a magazine? He was good-looking enough to be a male model or a movie actor; maybe that was it.
Francie kept thinking about him when she went into the bedroom Jerry showed her to change from her clothes into the short hapi coat he'd left lying across the bed. Jerry Harmon was okay, he was a good-looking dude, but Brant Newcomb really got to her. He was one of the handsomest men she'd ever seen, and she liked the way he looked at her, not trying to hide it. She didn't usually go for blonds in a big way, but this particular blond guy had something about him that reached out to her and made her tingle. He knew it, too.
Emerging from the bedroom in the short Japanese robe, Francie let her hips sway a little, kept her head high. She'd tied the belt around her waist, but had let the robe stay open down to there. Let them see that she had a cleavage and nice boobs. And at least she had hips to swing under a guy's nose, unlike that skinny bitch Eve!
There was a kind of improvised platform, doubling as a couch, running the length of the big windows— brightly colored pillows scattered along its padded expanse. Jerry gestured toward it. He was playing with his camera equipment already, and there were wires strung out all over the floor, and lights that hurt her eyes when he flicked them on.
"I'm going to start off by having you pose out here against the windows, sweetie—use the tall buildings and the sky as a backdrop. Afterward—well, we'll take it from there."
Francie threaded her way through all the scattered equipment, meeting Brant Newcomb's eyes head-on for an instant. She climbed up onto the soft platform, waiting for Jerry to tell her what to do next. She felt a tingle of excitement shoot through her—it had begun, she was going to be a model at last. Maybe they'd want her for a Stud centerfold someday—wouldn't that just frost big-brother David?
Jerry was squinting through the viewfinder of the camera, adjusting the lights, turning them so they impaled her with their brilliance and heat. She couldn't see the other man now, but she felt his presence there, and she had finally remembered where she'd seen his picture. It had accompanied an article in See magazine, called "The New Breed of Playboy." He was very, very rich, she recalled, and he raced cars and grooved with movie stars and skiied and gave fabulous, wild parties. He really fascinated her, and she was determined to make him notice her—really notice her.
"Okay, luv, drop the robe now. That's right. Just kick it aside and stand there turned sideways so I can get a profile shot. You really have a gorgeous pair of knockers, you know that?"
Trembling slightly—was it from cold or excitement? —Francie dropped the robe.
After about a half hour, when her body had become so stiff that her muscles screamed their protest every time he made her move, changing her pose, Jerry told her she could take a break while he changed film— that Brant would fix her a drink if she needed one.
Still blinded by the brightness of the fights, but determined to show her poise and nonchalance, Francie didn't bother to look around for the robe. She walked over, almost groping her way, to where the blurred shape stood waiting for her.
Francie asked for a Scotch (Eve's drink—it sounded sophisticated), and while he fixed it, she could feel her eyes getting used to the ordinary fight again.
"How did I do?" she longed to ask, but that wouldn't be cool—better to stay silent and let him make the first move.
He handed her a glass and let his eyes run obviously and openly over her body. She felt herself grow warm. The Scotch warmed her insides, too. He'd made it very strong, and it took a real effort on her part not to grimace over the first swallow.
What a gas, she kept thinking. This dude is a billionaire, and he's in the same room with me, looking at my body. He can't hide the fact that he wants me, either
It was true—there was that familiar look in his eyes now, the look she had seen before in the eyes of other men. He put his hand out and cupped one of her breasts casually, for just an instant.
"Nice. They feel real, too. I don't know how much Jerry's paying you for his pictures, but whatever it is, I'll double it for one special one, just for me. One without the blond wig. You'll be twice as pretty with your dark hair, won't you? I pick the pose, and you get a bonus for being so sexy and cooperative." His eyes crinkled at her, although she could recognize no laughter in their depths. "Are you going to be cooperative, Frances?"
Her breast still felt all warm and tingly from his touch, and the Scotch was making her stomach burn and kind of vibrate in the same way it did when she thought about the four guys in her freshman year who had "initiated" her. Somehow, just the way Brant Newcomb was studying her with those bright blue eyes made her remember all the things they'd done to her—the things they'd made her do for them.
He was waiting for her to answer him, and just then, she felt Jerry come up to stand behind her.
"Looks like you've propositioned her already, Brant. Heck—I haven't had a chance to get my pitch in yet."
"Maybe Frances will give us both a chance. What do you say, baby?"
It was exciting—Francie had never felt more alive than she did now, standing here nude between two guys while they talked about making it with her in such casual, polite voices.
The photography session began again. This time, the pictures were a litde more suggestive, more explicit in what they showed of her. Francie kept wanting to giggle. Wow, if David ever saw one of these pictures! The thought of his reaction, of what he'd do to her afterward, made her whole body glow and get kind of weak. It gave her face a sensual, pouty look that seemed to drive Jerry wild—he kept telling her she was a natural.
When he'd finished what he referred to as the "official picture-taking," Francie went into the bedroom with both Jerry and Brant, pulling off the blond wig as her long dark hair cascaded around her shoulders. She let Brant tumble her on the bed and make it with her while Jerry took more pictures—zooming in for lots of close-ups.
When Brant was through with her, Jerry took his place on the bed, and Brant took the pictures this time. Afterward, they all had drinks and sat together looking at some of the pictures they'd taken with a Polaroid camera. They were wild and pornographic, and they turned Francie on so much that she began clawing at Brant's groin with her hands until he tumbled her down onto the floor and began screwing
her again, taking his time this go around, laughing all the while at her eagerness and wildness.
His laughter seemed to mock at her, and she got so mad that she began to bite and claw at him; then he slapped her hard, slapped her coldly again and again until her anger and viciousness subsided and she was clinging to him, begging him in a choked voice to do it to her again, quickly.
"You're one of those, are you, you little hellion? You dig being hurt. Okay, honey, I'm willing to oblige. Sometimes it even turns me on, you know? Especially when I do this to a woman."
"This" turned out to be sprawling her across his knee and spanking her bare and wriggling ass while she gasped and whimpered and rubbed herself lewdly against his leg, needing the contact of his flesh against hers.
When he was through beating her, she continued to wriggle and squirm across his thighs, the tears pouring from her eyes. But there was a sly triumph in her voice when she spoke.
"I'm really yours now, you know? You just made me yours. You can do anything you want with me, anything at all, I wouldn't mind. Do it to me, Brant, do it! Screw me, fuck me, make me crawl, use me. . . . I'm good— all the guys tell me I'm the best. And I'll do anything for you, everything you want me to, you'll see!"
Without wasting words, he took her again, bending her over the bed this time, ramming himself into her violently and painfully and satisfyingly while Jerry took more pictures. And then it was Jerry's turn again....
Brant actually offered to drive her home afterward. Sitting beside him, snuggling into the softness of real leather seats, Francie was in heaven. She'd finally found a guy—a man—who could give her everything she craved. And she was going to make him need her, too. He was definitely interested; she could tell—why else would he be taking her home?
Francie told Brant Newcomb that she lived with a very jealous and uptight guy, so he'd better drop her off a couple of blocks away. She wondered if he'd believed her, if he'd ask her any questions, but he only shrugged as if he couldn't care less. He intrigued her—everything about him intrigued her, including his money. She'd never ridden in a Jag before, either; it was neat. And she was glad that he drove fast and rather carelessly— who wanted to live without some risk and danger to make things exciting?
Snuggling closer to Brant, Francie put her hand on Iris thigh, running it up and down his crotch until she felt the sudden hardness there. She smiled. It was easy to give a guy a hard-on; she'd learned that real early.
"Shall I blow you?" she asked him eagerly, already bending her head down to him.
With one hand on the wheel, he pulled her up by the hair.
"Not now, baby. Later. You'd better learn not to be greedy."
His eyes studied her for an instant before they went back to the road. She couldn't read anything in them.
"I'm going to give you a phone number, doll. Call me sometime when your jealous lover is out of town, and we'll party, okay?"
He was full of surprises—just when she had begun to pout, fearing that he was bored and done with her for good, here he was suggesting that she call him. He was interested in her, then. Francie couldn't help wriggling in anticipation of the next time, another wildly exciting time with this strange and fascinating guy.
Even after he had dropped her off, she continued to think about him. Walking the two blocks back home, she was already planning for their next meeting. She wanted Brant Newcomb. She'd make damn sure he'd never get tired of her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FRANCIE CALLED BRANT NEWCOMB two days later. It was a Saturday morning, and Dave had already called to tell them that he was unavoidably tied up this weekend and couldn't come down to Albany. That means another weekend alone with the kids—Saturday was Mrs. Lambert's day off, and she would be expected, without any question, to take over and baby-sit the kids. Well, this time she wouldn't do it! Why should she? Didn't Dave realize she was seventeen and entitled to some life of her own? Dave was selfish and overbearing and she hated him, but Rick would take care of things. He was really a good kid—quiet and dependable. One good tiling about Rick and Lisa, they loved her and they'd never tell on her. She'd tell them they could stay indoors and watch as much TV as they wanted, and she'd make sure there were plenty of sandwiches and snacks in the refrigerator. They'd be okay, they wouldn't even miss her, and she'd be back in plenty of time
Her hands shook when she dialed his number, hoping desperately that he'd be there. It rang for a long time before he finally answered, his voice sounding sleepy and mad at being awakened. She told him who it was, wondering suddenly if he'd remember her. There was a pause, and the tone of Iris voice changed subtly, carrying a kind of charged, challenging amusement as he told her to come up soon after noon, by which time he'd be wide awake enough to enjoy her company. He gave her the address and hung up abruptly, leaving her still holding the phone, her knuckles white with tension and excitement.
Getting away from the house wasn't quite as easy as she'd thought it would be. Rick asked her where she was going and acted sullen because she'd promised to pitch for him that morning.
"I'm tired of sitting around in this dumb old house, too," he complained. "If you can't do it, then maybe Bob Fields's dad might. He said he might the other day, when I told him I didn't have anyone to pitch for me—"
Francie cut him off short, trying to hang onto her temper. It wasn't easy because Lisa, sensing tension and anger in the air, had already begun to cry silently, her face hidden in her hands.
"Look—look, you guys, this is really important to me. I mean really. I swear. Otherwise I wouldn't be leaving you, would I? But look at some of the other girls my age—they're out driving their own cars and going on dates, and Dave expects me to hang around here all the time. It's driving me nuts!"
Rick looked uncertain, and she dropped to her knees, holding his shoulders.
"Rick, please? I'll give you five dollars. And—and no, wait, I'll give you a couple of bucks and I'll call Cheryl right now and ask if she'll come over and watch you till I get back. How's that? She doesn't have a steady guy, so she'd be home anyhow, and she was complaining just the other day she needed some bread...."
Francie usually got her own way in the end. Even with Cheryl. It took twelve dollars out of the money Brant and Jerry had given her the previous day—money she had already hidden away to start what she called her "getaway fund." But twelve dollars was worth it, even when she had to add on the bus fare to the city and a taxi from the bus depot over to the address Brant had given her.
She was glad that she had taken a taxi when she got there—it was quite a distance away from the bus depot and the crummy downtown area. Even the air here smelled different, and there were trees and beautifully kept lawns and even gardens that blazed with color. She looked up at the tall row house almost reverently after the taxi driver had left. Yeah, he'd have a place like this. Just like the kind of house that got featured in Better Homes or American Home—all the way up at the top of one of San Francisco's snobbier hills, view of the bay and all. He could have anything he wanted, she supposed, with all that money and his looks. And he wanted her—he must want her, or she wouldn't be here.
Now she wished she'd bought herself something really expensive and sexy to wear for him. But thinking about it, she suddenly giggled. Shit—what was the point? It wasn't her clothes Brant was interested in; it was her body. Still giggling, Francie rang the doorbell. A disco tune ran through her head, and she swayed to the rhythm, waiting for him to let her in.
Brant, by himself, was a perfect, polite host. Feeding her caviar and champagne out on the terrace because she'd confessed she'd always dreamed about tasting caviar and drinking champagne with it. He'd wrinkled his nose at the thought of champagne, but he'd opened a bottle for her and poured out some chilled white wine for himself. And afterward, bringing out two little pipes, he let her smoke hash with him. It was wild—the smoke made her feel kind of loose and high almost at once.
She wondered what he would do with her this t
ime, and when he would make his move, but he was taking his time—toying with her, only occasionally, as if to remind her why she was here.
Then, at last, he took her into his playroom, with its mirrors and its enormous bed, and he showed her the movie and sound equipment that was concealed everywhere. He could even take pictures in the dark, he told her, using infrared lighting.
Without waiting for him to tell her to, she started to take her clothes off, watching herself in the mirrors, and he laughed.
"How do you know I'm ready for you yet?" he mocked her.
So she knelt in front of him and unzipped his tight sky-blue pants and began to give him head. After a few seconds, he pushed her away.
"You need to take lessons, baby. That's a delicate instrument you're handling so carelessly down there, not a hot dog!"
He moved back, his cold eyes watching her.
"But I've forgotten—you're the one who likes to be hurt and then screwed, right? Or is it that you like to be screwed so it hurts? I forget easy, but I do remember that's why you're here, isn't it?"
Her pride smarting, she squatted on the floor, staring up at him.
He was jeering at her, playing games with her, and she didn't like it.
"You—you bastard. No guy ever complained about the way I give a blow job before. What do you mean, I need to take lessons?"
"Talking's a waste of time, baby. You came here to get screwed, and now I'm ready for you. And you do need lessons, but I don't have the time or the inclination to give you any. Now get on that bed and get yourself ready while I shuck my clothes."
Something in the contemptuous tone of his voice, the studied cruelty of his words, got through to her, and suddenly she didn't care if he screwed her or not.
The Insiders Page 8
